MISS  ESPERANCE  AND 
MR.  WYCHERLY 


BOOKS  BY  L.  ALLEN   BARKER 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly.  12mo  $1.50 
His  First  Leave.  12mo  .  .  .  .  ,  $1.50 
Concerning  Paul  and  Fiammetta.  12mo  SI. 25 

A  Romance  of  the  Nursery.      Illustrated. 

12mo    .  .       .    $1.25 


MISS  ESPERANCE  AND 
MR  WYCHERLY 


BY 


L.  ALLEN  HARKER 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  NURSERY,"  "CONCERNING 
PAUL  AND  FIAMETTA,"  "HIS  FIRST  LEAVE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908.  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1908 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    WHICH  INTRODUCES  THEM     ....       1 

II.   THE  COMING  OF  THE  CHILDREN  ...  15 

III.  THE  EDUCATION  OF  MR.WYCHERLY     .  33 

IV.  THE  SECRETIVENESS  OF  MAUSE  ...  54 
V.   ROBINA 69 

VI.  THE  AWAKENING  OF  MR.  WYCHERLY    .    84 

VII.  ELSA  DRIVES  THE  NAIL  HOME    .     .     .  105 

VIII.  EDMUND  RECHRISTENS  MR.  WYCHERLY  122 

IX.  CUPID  ABROAD 136 

X.  THE  SABBATH 151 

XI.  LOAVES  AND  FISHES 163 

XII.  THE  VILLAGE 175 

XIII.  A  MEETING 191 

XIV.  A  PARTING 205 

XV.  THE  BETHUNE  TEMPERAMENT         .     .  218 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI.    THE  COMING  OF  THE  COLONEL  .     .     .  234 

XVII.    MR.  WYCHERLY  GOES  INTO  SOCIETY  .  252 
XVIII.    MONTAGU  AND  His  AUNT     ....  267 

XIX.   THE  FOND  ADVENTURE 276 

XX.   A  QUESTION  OF  THEOLOGY   ....  289 

XXI.    IN  WHICH  MR.  WYCHERLY  HANGS  UP 

His  COLLEGE  ARMS 309 

XXII.   VALE   ,  .  322 


"Love  is  an  excellent  thing,  a  great  good 
indeed,  which  alone  maketh  light  all  that  is 
burthensome  and  equally  bears  all  that  is  un- 
equal. For  it  carrieth  a  burthen  without 
being  burthened  and  maketh  all  that  which 
is  bitter  sweet  and  savoury." 


MISS    ESPERANCE  AND 
MR.  WYCHERLY 

CHAPTER  I 

WHICH   INTRODUCES   THEM 

And  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  of  the  child-like,  of  those 
who  are  easy  to  please,  who  love  and  who  give  pleasure. 

R.  L.  S. 

JUST  as  a  Royal  Princess  is  known  only  by 
her  Christian  name,  so  "Miss  Esperance" 
was  known  to  her  many  friends  by  hers.    It 
would  have  seemed  an  impertinence  to  add 
anything    more:     there    was    only    one    Miss 
Esperance,  and  even  quite  commonplace  people, 
deficient  in  imagination  and  generally  prosaic 
in  their  estimate  of  their  acquaintance,   ac- 
knowledged,   perhaps   unconsciously,    that   in 
Miss  Esperance  was  to  be  found  in  marked 
degree  "that  hardy  and  high  serenity,"  dis- 
tinguishing quality  of  the  truly  great. 
A  little,  old  lady,  her  abundant  white  hair 
1 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

demurely  parted  under  the  species  of  white 
muslin  cap  known  in  the  North  country  as  a 
"mutch,"  with  beautiful,  kind  eyes,  and  a 
fresh  pink-and-white  complexion,  having  a  slim, 
long-waisted  figure,  always  attired  in  garments 
something  of  a  cross  between  those  of  a  Quaker- 
ess and  a  Sister-of-Mercy;  a  little,  old  lady,  who 
walked  delicately  and  talked  deliberately  the 
English  of  Mr.  Addison;  who  lived  in  a  small, 
square  house  set  in  a  big,  homely  garden,  on  an 
incredibly  small  income;  and  out  of  that  in- 
come helped  innumerable  people  poorer  than 
herself,  to  say  nothing  of  much  greater  re- 
sponsibilities undertaken  at  an  age  when  most 
of  us  look  for  rest  and  a  quiet  life. 

Long  before  there  was  a  village  of  Burnhead 
at  all,  that  small  stone  house  had  stood  four- 
square to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  winds 
are  boisterous  in  that  cold  North.  So  lonely 
had  it  been — that  little  house — that  far  back, 
beyond  the  memory  of  even  hearsay  it  had 
been  called  "Remote."  Now  the  village  had 
crept  up  round  it,  but  still  it  stood  just  a  little 
aloof,  alone  in  its  green  garden  at  the  end  of 
the  straggling  village  street.  And  it  seemed  a 

2 


Which  Introduces  Them 

singularly  suitable  setting  for  Miss  Esperance 
who,  also,  by  reason  of  her  breeding  and  her 
dignified,  dainty  ways,  moved  wholly  uncon- 
sciously and  gracefully  on  a  somewhat  different 
plane  from  that  of  the  homely  folk  amongst 
whom  she  spent  her  simple  days. 

Such  was  Miss  Esperance;  regarded  by  the 
inhabitants  of  her  own  village,  and  those  of  the 
big  town  on  whose  outskirts  it  lay,  with  some- 
thing of  the  possessive  pride  with  which  they 
looked  upon  their  famous  Castle. 

And  then  there  was  Mr.  Wycherly. 

For  some  years  he  had  lived  with  Miss 
Esperance,  occupying  two  rooms  on  the  first 
floor.  A  very  learned  man  was  he,  absorbed 
in  the  many  books  which  lined  his  little  sitting- 
room.  Something  of  a  collector,  too,  with  a 
discriminating  affection  for  first  editions  and 
a  knowledge  concerning  them  excelling  that  of 
Mr.  Donaldson  himself,  the  great  second-hand 
dealer. 

The  attitude  of  Miss  Esperance  toward  Mr. 
Wycherly  somewhat  resembled  that  of  Miss 
Betsy  Trotwood  to  Mr.  Dick,  with  this  differ- 
ence— that  Mr.  Wycherly 's  lapses  from  a  con- 

3 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

dition  of  erudite  repose  were  only  occasional. 
He  had  what  Miss  Esperance  tenderly  called 
"one  foible."  On  occasion,  particularly  at 
such  times  as  he  left  the  safe  shelter  of  the 
village  on  a  book-hunting  expedition  in  the 
neighbouring  town,  "he  exceeded" — again  to 
quote  Miss  Esperance — the  temperate  tumbler 
of  toddy  and  single  glass  of  port  which  she 
accorded  him;  and  would  return  in  a  state 
of  boisterous  hilarity,  which  caused  Elsa,  the 
serving-woman,  to  shake  her  head  and  mutter 
something  about  "haverals"  on  his  first  waver- 
ing appearance  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden 
path  which  led  to  the  front  door. 

Then  would  she  march  upstairs  and  sternly 
"turn  down"  his  bed;  descending  hastily  again 
and,  in  spite  of  his  protests,  trundle  him  up 
the  staircase,  divest  him  of  his  boots,  nor 
leave  him  till  he  was  safe  between  the  sheets. 
There  he  continued  to  sing  lustily  till  he  fell 
asleep. 

He  was  never  otherwise  than  courteous  in  his 
cups;  but  at  such  times  his  usually  austere 
manner  would  unbend,  and  he  would  compare 
Elsa — who  was  older  than  Miss  Esperance  and 

4 


Which  Introduces  Them 

extremely  hard-favoured — to  sundry  heathen 
goddesses,  eulogising  her  eyes  and  her  com- 
plexion, and  interspersing  his  compliments  with 
sonorous  Latin  quotations;  for,  like  Mr.  Addi- 
son,  "his  knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  from 
Lucretius  and  Catullus  down  to  Claudian  and 
Prudentius,  was  singularly  exact  and  pro- 
found." 

Even  when  most  mirthful  he  sang  only  two 
songs,  "Here's  a  Health  Unto  His  Majesty" 
and  "Down  Among  the  Dead  Men."  In  his 
more  sober  moments  he  professed  entire  ignor- 
ance of  music. 

There  were  people  who  said  that  he  was  a 
descendant  of  the  Mr.  Wycherly  who  wrote 
plays,  but  he  was  never  heard  to  claim  any 
such  relationship.  When  he  first  came  to  live 
with  Miss  Esperance  his  family  and  hers  almost 
despaired  of  him,  and  even  talked  of  putting 
him  "in  a  home";  for  his  "foible"  had  become 
a  habit,  and  health  and  brain  were  both 
seriously  affected.  Then  Miss  Esperance  sug- 
gested that  he  should  come  to  her,  and  he  and 
his  relatives  were  only  too  glad  to  fall  in  with 
the  suggestion.  What  he  could  pay  would 

5 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

make  things  easier  for  her,  and  she,  if  any  one 
in  the  world,  might  reclaim  him.  But  if  his 
friends  thought  to  make  things  more  comfort- 
able for  Miss  Esperance  by  the  quarterly  pay- 
ments they  made  for  his  board  and  lodging, 
they  were  very  far  wrong.  She  deducted  a 
few  shillings  for  his  rooms,  but  the  rest  was 
most  religiously  expended  upon  Mr.  Wycherly; 
and  as  his  health  improved  and  the  fine,  keen, 
scholarly  brain  reasserted  itself,  he  was  only 
too  glad  to  leave  everything  to  Miss  Esperance, 
never  concerning  himself  so  much  as  to  order  a 
pair  of  boots  unless  she  accompanied  him  to 
be  measured. 

He  "exceeded"  less  and  less;  his  vocal  exer- 
cises were  confined  to  some  four  times  in  the 
year,  and  Miss  Esperance  rejoiced  over  him  as 
a  book-lover  rejoices  over  some  rare  folio 
rescued  from  the  huckster's  stall  to  play  an 
honoured  part  among  "the  chosen  and  the 
mighty  of  every  place  and  time." 

"It  is  of  inestimable  advantage  to  me  to  be 
able  to  listen  daily  to  the  instructive  con- 
versation of  so  cultivated  a  man  as  my  good 
friend  Mr.  Wycherly,"  Miss  Esperance  would 

6 


Which  Introduces  Them 

say.  "He  seems  to  comprise  in  his  own  person 
the  trained  intelligence  of  the  ages." 

And  no  matter  to  whomsoever  she  said  it,  he 
would  bow  gravely  and  look  impressed.  It  was 
surprising  what  beautiful  manners  quite  un- 
couth people  developed  in  the  society  of  Miss 
Esperance. 

She  had  many  relations  in  high  places,  and 
all  who  crossed  her  threshold  were  her  life-long 
friends,  eager  to  serve  her,  but  she  would  ac- 
cept pecuniary  assistance  from  none  of  them. 

She  and  Elsa,  the  faithful  servant  and  friend 
of  some  fifty  years,  cooked  and  washed  and 
gardened,  caught  and  groomed  the  shaggy  pony 
in  the  little  paddock,  and  cleaned  the  queer 
little  carriage  in  which  Miss  Esperance  used  to 
drive  into  Edinburgh,  with  a  shawl  pinned  over 
her  bonnet,  on  cold  days,  to  protect  her  ears. 

She  and  Elsa  seldom  tasted  meat  except  on 
Sundays.  "A  man,  my  dear,  is  different,"  she 
would  say,  when  chops  were  frizzling  for  Mr. 
Wycherly;  but  she  always  had  a  meal  for  a 
friend,  and  a  good  and  daintily  served  meal  it 
was! 

When  you  stayed  with  Miss  Esperance,  Elsa 
7 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

would  put  her  head  into  your  bedroom — it 
seemed  in  the  small  hours — demanding  loudly, 
"Will  ye  tak'  a  herring  or  an  egg  to  your 
breakfast?"  And  you  were  wise  if  you  chose 
the  herring,  for  herrings  "brandered"  by  Elsa 
were  of  a  succulence  unknown  to  ordinary 
mortals. 

It  fell  upon  a  time  during  Mr.  Wycherly's 
sojourn  that  one  Archie,  a  young  nephew  of 
Miss  Esperance,  came  to  visit  them,  and  in  no 
time  the  jolly  young  middy,  whose  ship  was 
anchored  at  Leith,  had  made  a  conquest  of 
them,  all  three,  with  his  youth,  and  good  looks, 
and  kindly,  cheery  ways. 

Mr.  Wycherly  heard  that  a  first  edition  of 
"Beaumont  and  Fletcher"  was  to  be  seen  at 
some  bookseller's  in  the  new  town,  and  set 
forth  early  with  five  pounds  in  his  pocket,  to 
see  if  he  could  secure  such  a  find. 

The  day  waned,  and  still  no  Mr.  Wycherly 
returned  triumphant  to  display  his  treasure 
before  the  admiring  eyes  of  Miss  Esperance  and 
"that  vastly  agreeable  youth,"  as  he  styled 
Archie. 

Miss  Esperance  visibly  grew  more  and  more 
8 


Which  Introduces  Them 

anxious,  and  Archie,  who  was  quite  ignorant 
of  Mr.  Wycherly's  "  foible,"  wondered  why  his 
aunt  should  concern  herself  that  a  dignified 
middle-aged  gentleman  had  not  returned  by 
five  o'clock  on  a  spring  afternoon.  So  per- 
turbed did  she  become  that  Archie  volunteered 
to  go  and  look  for  him. 

His  aunt  hesitated,  then  said  slowly,  "Dear 
Archie,  I  am  not  sure  whether  it  would  be  right 
to  let  you  go.  You  are  very  young,  and  poor 
dear  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Hoots,  Miss  Esperance,"  interrupted  Elsa 
from  the  half-open  door,  where  she  had  been 
listening  in  the  most  barefaced  fashion,  "just 
let  the  laddie  gang:  he  is  better  suited  to  see 
after  yon  puir  drucken  body  than  you  are 
yersel'!" 

With  that  blessed  reticence  which  character- 
ises all  honest  and  well-disposed  boys,  Archie 
asked  no  questions.  The  whole  situation 
"jumped  to  the  eye";  so,  kissing  his  aunt,  he 
seized  his  jaunty  cap  and  was  gone  before  Miss 
Esperance  recovered  from  her  wonder  and  in- 
dignation at  Elsa's  "meddling." 

Archie  walked  smartly,  keeping  a  sharp  look- 
9 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

out  to  right  and  left  till  he  reached  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town:  but  he  met  nobody  other 
than  an  occasional  drover. 

Presently  he  became  aware  of  a  little  crowd 
which  surrounded  some  one  who  was  apparently 
sitting  on  the  curbstone  and  singing. 

The  group  of  rough  lads  and  fisher-girls 
joined  derisively  in  the  chorus  of  the  song, 
marking  the  time  by  means  of  various  missiles 
more  calculated  to  soil  than  to  injure  their 
target. 

With  a  sense  of  foreboding  curiosity  as  the 
discordant  "Fal-la-la,  la,  la  la,  la"  smote  upon 
his  ears,  Archie  squeezed  himself  into  the  press 
under  the  arms  of  its  taller  members,  and  to 
his  dismay  discovered  Mr.  Wycherly — hatless, 
almost  coatless,  dirty  and  dishevelled — en- 
deavouring to  sing  "  Here's  a  Health  Unto  His 
Majesty"  in  very  adverse  circumstances. 

Archie  pushed  through  to  his  side,  saying 
haughtily,  "  Don't  you  see  that  the  gentle- 
man is  drunk?  Be  off,  and  let  me  take  him 
home." 

But  the  lads  and  lassies  by  no  means  saw  it 
in  that  light,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to 

10 


Which  Introduces  Them 

write  the  sentence  Archie  was  engaged  single- 
handed  in  a  free  fight  with  all  and  sundry,  and 
there  seemed  every  likelihood  of  his  getting 
decidedly  the  worst  of  it. 

Fortune  favours  the  brave,  however,  and  a 
big  collier  lad,  who  had  been  the  first  to  point 
out  Mr.  Wycherly's  peculiarities  of  gait  and 
costume  to  his  companions,  suddenly  sided 
with  Archie,  and  not  only  did  he  succeed  in 
dispersing  his  quondam  friends,  but  he  fetched 
a  "hackney  coach"  and  lifted  Mr.  Wycherly 
bodily  into  it. 

The  " Beaumont  and  Fletcher"  had  proved 
to  be  a  reprint,  and  Mr.  Wycherly  had  drowned 
his  sorrows  in  the  flowing  bowl. 


At  twenty-two,  with  nothing  but  his  pay  to 
live  upon,  Archie  married  a  pretty  girl  whose 
face  was  her  sole  fortune.  Two  charming  little 
boys  were  born  to  them  in  the  next  seven  years, 
then  Archie  and  his  wife  both  died  of  typhoid 
fever  at  Portsmouth. 

There  were  no  living  near  relatives  on  either 
side,  but  kindly  strangers  forwarded  a  letter, 

11 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

written  by  Archie  a  week  before  his  death,  to 
Miss  Esperance. 

She  was  then  nearly  seventy  years  old,  but 
in  this  matter  she  did  not  even  consult  Mr. 
Wycherly.  She  merely  informed  him  of  what 
had  occurred,  and  announced  her  speedy  de- 
parture for  Portsmouth  "to  fetch  dear  Archie's 
children  home." 

She  had  not  left  her  own  house  for  a  single 
night  in  fifteen  years. 

Mr.  Wycherly  took  her  frail,  beautiful  old 
hand  in  his  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  As  he  laid 
it  down,  he  said  beseechingly,  "You  will  let  me 
act  as  joint  guardian  with  you  to  Archie's 
children?  I  will  undertake  the  education  of 
those  boys  myself — it  will  be  a  great  interest 
for  me." 

"They  will  indeed  be  fortunate  boys!"  said 
Miss  Esperance,  and  she  raised  such  beautiful, 
trustful  eyes  to  her  old  friend  that  he  was  fain 
to  kiss  her  hand  again  and  hasten  from  the  room. 

Shortly  afterward  he  left  the  house  and 
might  have  been  seen  hurrying  along  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  Edinburgh,  with  a  large  and 
seemingly  heavy  parcel  under  his  arm. 

12 


Which  Introduces  Them 

He  was  not  long  away,  and  he  walked  steady 
and  straight,  but  all  the  same  he  sang  softly 
under  his  breath,  "and  he  that  will  this  health 
deny,"  as  he  shut  the  garden  gate  with  a  clang 
and  hurried  toward  the  house. 

Miss  Esperance  was  standing  in  the  little 
hall  dressed  for  driving,  looking  pale  and  per- 
turbed. She,  too,  had  a  parcel,  a  small  square 
parcel,  and  Elsa  was  evidently  remonstrating, 
for  Mr.  Wycherly  heard  her  say  as  he  came  up : 
"It's  just  fair  redeeklus, and  onny o'  them  would 
be  just  prood  to  be  askit — an'  me  wi'  all  yon 
wages  lyin'  idle  i'  the  bank  these  thirty  year!" 

She  paused  abruptly  as  Mr.  Wycherly  ap- 
peared in  the  open  door.  Elsa  had  sharp  ears 
in  spite  of  her  years,  and  the  last  "let  him  lie" 
sent  her  up  the  staircase  as  fast  as  her  old  legs 
would  carry  her. 

"Miss  Esperance,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "we 
start  this  afternoon.  See,  I  have  bought  the 
tickets,"  and  he  waved  them  triumphantly. 
"I  have  made  all  our  arrangements.  We  shall 
reach  Portsmouth  about  midday  to-morrow, 
and  there  is  plenty  of  money  for  present  ex- 
penses, so  please — '  he  took  the  little  square 

13 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

parcel  from  her  very  gently,  and  reached  it  up 
to  Elsa,  who  stood  on  the  top  step  of  the  curly 
staircase.  Through  the  paper  he  felt  it  was 
the  little  leather  jewel-case  that  had  been  her 
mother's.  "We  could  not  allow  that,  Miss 
Esperance!"  he  continued.  "Journeys  are  a 
man's  business." 

Miss  Esperance  sat  down  on  the  only  chair 
in  the  hall  and  began  to  cry. 

Next  day,  when  they  were  far  away,  and 
Elsa  was  dusting  Mr.  Wycherly's  books — he 
took  them  out  and  dusted  them  himself  three 
times  a  week;  there  were  no  glass  doors,  for  he 
said  he  could  not  bear  "to  see  his  friends 
through  a  window" — she  came  on  several  gaps 
in  the  well-filled  shelves.  "The  right  edition 
of  Gerard"  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  long 
row  of  "kind-hearted  play-books"  was  loose  in 
the  shelf,  for  "Philip  Massinger"  was  a-missing. 
And  in  the  sacred  place  devoted  to  "first  folios" 
there  was  a  yawning  chasm. 

Elsa  paused,  duster  in  hand.  "She  maun 
never  ken,"  she  whispered.  "They  buiks  was 
more  to  him  than  her  braws  is  tae  a  woman. 
She  maun  never  ken." 

14 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   COMING   OF   THE   CHILDREN 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall; 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

LONGFELLOW. 

ELSA  had  barely  finished  dusting  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  books  when  Lady  Alicia  Car- 
rut  hers  walked  over  from  the  "big  hoose"  to 
see  if  she  could  be  of  any  use.  People  found 
Elsa  more  approachable  in  this  respect  than 
Miss  Esperance,  and  often  seized  such  times  as 
they  had  seen  the  mistress  pass  in  her  little 
pony  carriage  to  tackle  the  maid,  as  to  whether 
anything  could  be  done  to  increase  the  old 
lady's  comfort,  without  her  knowledge. 

And  now  that  the  news  of  her  journey,  and 
its  reason,  had  flamed  through  the  village  with 
all  the  wonder  of  a  torchlight  procession,  it  was 
only  what  Miss  Esperance  herself  would  have 
described  as  " fitting"  that  the  chief  lady  in 

15 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

it  should  be  first  in  the  field  to  offer  her  ser- 
vices. 

Very  managing  was  Lady  Alicia,  strong, 
kind-hearted,  dictatorial;  mother  of  many 
children  and  inclined  to  regard  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  as  being  equally  in  need  of  super- 
vision. 

"What  on  earth  will  she  do  with  two  wee 
things  like  that?"  she  cried  to  Elsa,  as  that 
worthy  met  her  in  the  passage.  "One's  but 
a  baby,  isn't  he?" 

"Two  years  and  one  month,"  answered  Elsa 
cheerfully;  "he'll  be  walkin'  onnyway." 

"You  know  the  little  room  leading  from  Miss 
Esperance's  into  the  passage,  you  must  put 
them  both  there,"  said  Lady  Alicia  decidedly. 
"Have  you  got  any  beds?  But  of  course  you 
haven't.  I'll  send  a  bed  for  the  older  boy  and 
a  crib  for  the  baby,  and  bedding,  and  sheets, 
and  I've  found  the  very  girl  to  look  after  them 
— Robina  Tod,  a  good  douce  lassie — you'll  re- 
member her  mother,  Elsa?" 

"I  ken  her  fine,"  said  Elsa  slowly.  "But  yer 
Leddyship,  d'ye  think  Miss  Esperance  will  con- 
sent? And  where  would  the  lassie  sleep?" 

16 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

"Miss  Esperance  just  must  consent.  Robina 
will  be  thankful  to  come  to  get  trained  and  for 
her  food,  and  she  must  come  at  six  in  the 
morning,  and  go  home  at  night  to  sleep,  after 
they  are  bedded.  You  must  manage  Miss 
Esperance  in  this,  Elsa — she  will  be  so  be- 
wildered at  having  children  here  at  all  at  first, 
that  you'll  find  it  easier  than  you  expect. 
What  does  she  know  of  the  wants  of  little 
children?  Just  jxm  tell  her  that  you  made 
arrangements  because  she  hadn't  time." 

Elsa  stood  fingering  her  apron,  and  made  no 
answer,  nor  did  she  look  at  Lady  Alicia,  who 
was  looking  hard  at  her. 

"Come,  now,  Elsa,  you  know  there's  nothing 
for  it  but  to  give  in  gracefully.  They  must 
sleep  somewhere,  poor  lambs,  and  you  can't 
put  an  infant  in  a  four-post  bed." 

"I'm  thinkin',"  said  Elsa  slowly,  "that 
Master  Montagu  will  have  to  sleep  in  the  big 
bed,  for  yon  room  will  never  hold  three  beds, 
and  Miss  Esperance  would  never  part  wi'  yon 
that's  in  there." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  will  only  send  the  crib, 
and  a  bath,  and  Robina,  and — anything  else 

17 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

that  comes  into  my  head.  You  understand, 
Elsa?" 

"I'll  no  promise  Miss  Esperance'll  keep onny  o' 
it,  but  you'll  jest  see.  If  it  pleases  ye  to  send 
the  bits  o'  things,  it's  no  for  me  to  say  ye  nay." 

Here  Elsa  raised  her  head  and  looked  straight 
at  Lady  Alicia,  and  they  understood  one  an- 
other perfectly. 

When,  later  in  the  afternoon,  Robina,  a  rosy- 
cheeked  lass  of  sixteen,  appeared  in  a  spring 
cart  along  with  the  crib  and  a  variety  of  other 
useful  things,  Elsa  received  her  with  but 
grudging  courtesy,  and  might  have  been  heard 
to  mutter  as  she  went  about  the  house,  "There's 
some  folk  that  simply  canna  keep  their  fingers 
out  o'  other  folk's  business,  and  the  worst  o't 
is,  that  one  must  just  thole't." 


It  is  one  of  the  eternal  verities  that  no  man 
knows  what  he  can  do  till  he  tries.  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly suddenly  developed  a  "handiness"  with 
regard  to  babies  that  surprised  himself,  and 
caused  Miss  Esperance  to  regard  him  with 
almost  worshipful  astonishment. 

18 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

Montagu,  the  elder  boy,  fitted  into  his  new 
surroundings  at  once.  He  was  a  thoughtful, 
dreamy  child,  gentle  and  biddable,  with  an  in- 
born love  of  books  that  immediately  endeared 
him  to  Mr.  Wycherly.  But  the  baby,  Edmund, 
was  a  strenuous  person  of  inquiring  mind,  who 
toddled  and  crawled  and  tumbled  into  every 
corner  of  the  little  house;  who  poked  his  fat 
fingers  into  the  mustard,  the  ink,  and  the 
mangle,  impartially;  who  pulled  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  heaviest  books  out  of  the  shelves,  and 
built  a  tower  with  them,  which  fell  upon  and 
almost  buried  him  in  the  ruins,  whence,  howl- 
ing dismally,  he  was  rescued  by  Mr.  Wycherly 
himself,  only  consenting  to  be  comforted  when 
that  gentleman  "gappled"  with  him  round  the 
garden,  Edmund  sitting  enthroned  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  admonishing  him  to  "gee  up." 

"Walking"  indeed!  I  should  think  he  was 
walking — swarming,  climbing,  crawling,  tum- 
bling in  every  unimaginable  direction,  and 
celebrating  his  innumerable  accidents  by  vocif- 
erous outcries  which  invariably  brought  the 
whole  household  to  his  assistance.  Robina, 
who  in  spite  of  Elsa's  fears  had  been  retained 
19 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

as  the  children's  attendant,  declared  that 
Master  Edmund  was  "ayont  her,"  but  Elsa, 
manifesting  a  wholly  unexpected  toleration  for 
mischief  of  all  kinds,  declared  him  to  be  a 
"wee,  stumpin  stoozie"  after  her  own  heart. 

Lady  Alicia  proved  to  be  right.  Miss  Esper- 
ance on  her  return  with  the  children  expressed 
no  objection  to  any  of  the  preparations  they 
had  made  for  her.  Furthermore,  she  accepted 
gratefully,  and  with  a  dignified  humility  very 
affecting  to  those  who  knew  her,  the  offers  of 
"help  with  the  children"  that  poured  in  upon 
her  from  all  sides. 

"For  myself  it  was  only  fitting  that  I  should 
be  somewhat  reserved,"  she  gently  explained 
to  Elsa  when  that  honest  woman  exclaimed  in 
surprise  at  her  meek  acceptance  of  so  much 
neighbourly  "interference,"  "but  dear  Archie's 
children  are  different,  I  have  no  right  to  refuse 
kindness  toward  them:  and  my  good  friends 
have  been  so  wonderfully  kind — and  as  for  you, 
Elsa,  you  are  the  most  wonderful  of  all — look 
how  little  Edmund  loves  you!" 

Elsa  exclaimed,  "tuts  havers!"  and  hastened 
back  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  relieved  her 
20 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

feelings  by  making  more  of  the  gingerbread 
"pussies"  beloved  of  Baby  Edmund. 

Mr.  Wycherly  found  his  learned  leisure  con- 
siderably curtailed  by  the  new  arrivals.  Both 
Montagu  and  Edmund  (it  was  curiously  char- 
acteristic of  the  household  that  the  children 
were  " Montagu"  and  "Edmund"  from  the 
very  first,  never  "Monty"  or  "Baby")  in- 
finitely preferred  his  society  to  that  of  Robina, 
even  though  she  was  so  much  nearer  their  own 
age.  Children  are  very  quick  to  see  where  they 
may  tyrannise,  and  gentle,  scholarly  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly, who  had  loved  few  people,  and  those 
few  so  dearly,  fell  an  easy  victim  to  "dear 
Archie's  boys." 

Montagu  was  called  after  him,  but  if  on  this 
score  the  elder  boy  may  seem  to  have  had  more 
claim  on  his  attention  than  Baby  Edmund,  the 
little  brother  made  up  in  what  Montagu  called 
"demandliness,"  what  he  may  have  lacked  in 
legitimate  pretension. 

Even  in  a  very  large  house  it  is  impossible 
to  conceal  the  presence  of  children.  They  are 
of  all  human  creatures  the  most  ubiquitous,  the 
least  repressible.  Wherever  they  are  they  be- 

21 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

tray  themselves  in  a  thousand  ways  no  fore- 
sight can  presage.  Their  very  belongings  seem 
possessed  of  their  own  all-pervading  spirit,  and 
toys  and  small  shed  garments  have  a  way  of 
turning  up  in  the  most  unlikely  places. 

When,  three  days  after  the  little  boys  arrived 
at  Remote,  Mr.  Wycherly  discovered  an  absurd 
small  glove,  with  holes  in  every  finger,  shut 
inside  the  "Third  Satire  of  Horace,"  he  remem- 
bered to  have  heard  Elsa  loudly  rebuking  the 
lass,  Robina,  for  having  suffered  it  to  get  lost. 
He  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it,  fingering  it 
with  wistful  wonder  and  tenderness:  then, 
almost  guiltily  he  put  it  back  again  and  closed 
the  book,  apologising  to  himself  with  the  re- 
flection that  it  really  was  quite  worn  out. 

The  spare  bedroom  with  the  four-post  bed 
was  next  to  Mr.  Wycherly's  bedroom,  and  as 
it  was  the  only  room  in  Remote  that  was  pos- 
sible as  a  night  nursery,  he  heard  in  the  early 
morning  all  sorts  of  mysterious  sounds  con- 
nected with  the  toilet  of  the  two  small  boys. 
The  little  high  voices:  Baby  Edmund's  bub- 
bling laugh  that  was  exactly  like  the  beginning 
of  a  thrush's  song:  equally  often,  Baby  Ed- 

22 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

mund's  noisy  outcries  when  things  displeased 
him:  Robina's  pleadings,  and  the  gentle  coun- 
sels of  Miss  Esperance — all  these  things  smote 
upon  the  ears  of  Mr.  Wycherly  as  he  lay  in  bed 
waiting  for  the  big  can  of  hot  water  which, 
every  morning,  Elsa  dumped  down  outside  his 
door  that  he  might  take  the  chill  off  his  bath. 
This  matutinal  bath  being  something  of  a 
grievance  with  Elsa,  who  considered  it  as  a  part 
of  Mr.  Wycherly's  general  "  fushionlessness " 
that  he  should  require  so  much  more  washing 
than  other  folk. 

Thus  did  she  always  set  down  the  can  with  a 
thump,  and  perform  a  species  of  tattoo  on  Mr. 
Wycherly 's  door,  exclaiming  loudly,  "  Here's 
yer  bawth  watter — sir."  The  "sir"  always 
following  after  a  pause,  for  it  was  only  added 
out  of  deference  to  continual  admonishment  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Esperance,  who  thought  that 
Elsa's  manner  to  Mr.  Wycherly  was  frequently 
lacking  in  respect,  as  indeed  it  was.  She  could 
never  be  got  to  look  upon  him  as  other  than  a 
poor,  silly  pensioner  of  her  mistress. 

A  few  days  after  the  children  arrived,  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  awakened  by  the  voice  of  Ed- 

23 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

mund  in  the  next  room,  vociferously  demand- 
ing "man."  Mr.  Wycherly  sat  up  in  bed  and 
listened. 

"Want  man,  want  to  see  man." 

Murmured  remonstrances  from  Robina,  la- 
boured explanations  as  to  the  impossibility  of 
beholding  any  man  when  he  was  still  in  his 
bed. 

"Want  man,  want  to  see  man,"  in  tones  ever 
growing  louder  and  more  decided  from  Baby 
Edmund. 

This  went  on  for  about  hall  an  hour,  while 
all  the  time  Mr.  Wycherly  lay  awake  listening 
and  longing  to  get  up  and  join  the  little  person 
who  showed  so  flattering  a  desire  for  his  society; 
but  that  he  dared  not  do  till  Elsa  brought  his 
hot  water.  At  last  it  came:  dumped  down  as 
usual  with  a  resounding  impact  with  the  floor, 
while  Elsa  knocked  loudly  with  her  wonted 
vibrant  announcement. 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  just  preparing  to  get  up 
when  there  were  new  and  strange  sounds  out- 
side his  door:  rustlings  and  whisperings  and 
curious  uncertain  fumblings  with  the  handle. 
Suddenly  the  door  was  pushed  open  to  show 

24 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

the  children  standing  on  the  threshold  behind 
the  hot-water  can. 

"Man!  Man'!  Me  see  man  in  bed,"  cried 
Edmund,  jumping  up  and  down  gleefully.  He 
made  a  plunge  forward  to  reach  Mr.  Wycherly, 
and  of  course  fell  up  against  the  can,  which 
upset,  while  the  baby  capsized  on  to  the  top  of 
it.  The  water  was  hot  and  the  baby  was  very 
frightened.  So  was  Mr.  Wycherly.  As  loud 
wails  rent  the  air  he  leaped  out  of  bed  to  rush 
to  the  rescue,  only  to  skip  back  again  with  even 
greater  haste  as  he  heard  Elsa  and  Robina  on 
the  stairs.  Edmund  was  picked  up  and  car- 
ried off,  Robina  volubly  explaining  how  she 
had  only  left  them  for  a  minute.  Mr.  Wych- 
erly's  door  was  banged  to,  indignantly,  as 
though  he  was  entirely  to  blame,  and  the  hot 
water  continued  to  stream  gaily  over  the 
carpet. 

Mr.  Wycherly  stood  in  great  awe  of  Elsa. 
Here  was  a  most  tremendous  mess,  and  so  long 
as  he  was  in  bed  no  one  could  or  would  come  to 
his  assistance.  He  arose  hastily,  arrested  the 
flow  of  the  stream  in  one  direction  with  his  big 
bath  sponge,  sopped  up  the  water  as  well  as  he 

25 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

could,  and  concluded  the  operation  by  the  em- 
ployment of  all  his  towels. 

Presently  there  came  a  new  thump  on  his 
door.  "Have  ye  moppet  it  up?"  asked  Elsa 
anxiously. 

"As  well  as  I  could/'  Mr.  Wycherly  replied 
humbly.  "I  don't  think  it  will  soak  through 
to  the  room  below." 

"Pit  oot  the  can  an'  I'll  bring  ye  some  mair 
hot  watter — sir."  Standing  well  behind  the 
door  Mr.  Wycherly  opened  it  gingerly  and 
handed  out  the  can.  It  was  brought  back  full 
in  no  time,  and  again  he  heard  Elsa's  voice 
thus  adjuring  him,  "  Ye'd  better  mak  a  steer  or 
yer  breakfast  will  be  ruined — sir." 

Poor  Mr.  Wycherly  did  his  best  to  "mak  a 
steer,"  but  his  towels  were  a  sodden  mass,  and 
it  is  not  easy  to  dry  one's  self,  even  with  a  selec- 
tion of  the  very  largest  handkerchiefs.  His 
toilet  was  assuredly  less  careful  than  usual,  for 
he  was  very  anxious  about  little  Edmund,  al- 
though the  sounds  of  woe  had  ceased  in  a  very 
short  time  after  the  catastrophe  of  the  hot- 
water  can.  Mr.  Wycherly 's  sitting-room  was 
across  the  landing  from  his  bedroom,  but  be- 

26 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

fore  he  went  to  breakfast  he  hastened  down- 
stairs to  ask  after  Edmund's  welfare. 

He  knocked  at  the  parlour  door,  and  on  being 
bidden  to  enter  discovered  that  lusty  infant 
jumping  up  and  down  on  the  horse-hair  sofa, 
while  Miss  Esperance  sat  on  its  very  edge  to 
make  sure  that  he  should  not  take  a  sudden 
dive  on  to  the  floor. 

"I  do  hope  he  was  not  hurt—  "  Mr.  Wycherly 
began. 

"Man,  man,  me  go  to  man!"  Edmund  cried 
before  his  aunt  could  answer;  and  scrambling 
off  the  sofa  he  raced  across  the  room  to  Mr. 
Wycherly;  he  held  up  his  arms  exclaiming, 
"Uppee,  uppee!"  and  of  course  was  lifted  up. 
"Ta,  ta,"  he  remarked,  smiling  benignly  upon 
Miss  Esperance  from  this  eminence,  "Me  go 
wiv  man." 

He  waved  a  fat  hand  to  his  aunt,  and  kicked 
Mr.  Wycherly  in  the  waistcoat  to  hasten  their 
departure.  Mr.  WTycherly  wavered. 

"No,  Edmund,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  "you 
cannot  go  with  Mr.  Wycherly  now,  he  is  going 
to  his  breakfast." 

"Bretfus,"  echoed  Edmund  in  joyful  tones, 
27 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"me  go  bretfus  too,  wiv  man."  "I  would  like 
to  come,  too,"  Montagu  interpolated,  hastily 
clutching  at  Mr.  Wycherly's  coat. 

"May  I  take  them?"  that  gentleman  pleaded. 
"It  would  be  very  agreeable  to  have  their 
society  at  breakfast." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  "but 
since  you  are  so  very  kind — for  this  once — and 
if  you  find  them  too  much,  just  ring." 

The  joyful  procession  was  already  mounting 
the  steep,  curly  staircase,  and  "Bretfus — man" 
resounded  cheerily  in  the  distance  till  Mr. 
Wycherly's  door  was  shut. 

Miss  Esperance  sat  where  she  was  on  the 
edge  of  the  sofa.  She  was  very  tired,  for  she 
had  been  up  since  five  o'clock;  moreover,  her 
own  breakfast  had  been  of  the  slightest,  so 
busy  was  she  superintending  that  of  the  chil- 
dren. Her  head  felt  swimmy  and  the  familiar 
room  seemed  unreal  and  strange.  The  sudden 
silence  after  the  ceaseless  and  noisy  activity  of 
Baby  Edmund  was  restful  and  consoling.  Elsa 
and  Robina  were  upstairs  busy  making  beds 
and  emptying  baths. 

Miss  Esperance  felt  so  exhausted  that  she 
28 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

even  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  closed  her 
eyes;  a  thing  she  never  did  in  the  day  except 
sometimes  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon.  She  did 
not  lean  back,  for  she  belonged  to  that  vanished 
school  of  old  ladies  who  considered  that  to  loll 
was  akin  to  something  positively  disreputable: 
bed  was  the  only  place  where  it  was  proper  to 
repose.  Sofas  were  for  the  invalid  or  the  indo- 
lent, and  easy-chairs  for  men  folk  and  such-like 
feeble  spirits  as  were  indulgent  to  the  frailties 
of  the  flesh. 

"As  thy  days  so  shall  thy  strength  be," 
whispered  Miss  Esperance.  The  precepts  and 
promises  by  which  she  had  ruled  her  gentle  life 
did  not  fail  her  now  in  her  need:  "They  that 
wait  upon  the  Lord  shall  renew  their  strength; 
they  shall  mount  up  with  wings  as  eagles;  they 
shall  run  and  not  be  weary;  and  they  shall 
walk  and  not  faint." 

She  opened  her  eyes.  Once  more  the  room 
looked  homely  and  familiar;  the  pictures  on 
the  walls  had  ceased  to  chase  each  other  in  a 
giddy  round.  She  unclasped  her  hands  and 
rose.  "I'd  better  go  and  see  what  those 
bairns  are  doing,"  she  thought  to  herself, 

29 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"it's  not   fair  to  leave    them   with   him    for 
long." 

She  mounted  the  steep  stairs  and  paused  on 
the  landing  to  listen.  The  only  sound  to  be 
heard  was  a  sort  of  munching.  Then,  in  Ed- 
mund's decisive  voice,  "Maw  teas'." 

Another  pause.  "Bacon  all  dawn,"  in  tones 
of  sorrowful  conviction.  Silence  again  for  a 
minute,  then,  "Maw  mink." 

A  gurgle,  and  a  hasty  movement,  evidently 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Wycherly.  "He  always 
pours  it  down  his  chin  if  he  holds  it  himself," 
said  Montagu,  in  a  slightly  reproving  voice. 

A  sound  of  rubbing. 

"Toas'  all  dawn,"  mournfully,  from  Edmund. 

Miss  Esperance  opened  the  door.  The  two 
children  were  sitting  on  either  side  of  Mr. 
Wycherly  at  his  round  table.  Edmund's  chubby 
face  was  liberally  besmeared  with  bacon  fat, 
and  the  board  had  been  cleared  of  every  sort  of 
eatable  except  a  small  "heel"  of  loaf  and  a  pot 
of  marmalade,  which  neither  of  the  children 
liked.  It  was  Oxford  marmalade  and  very  bitter. 

"Have  they  been  good?"  Miss  Esperance  in- 
quired anxiously. 

30 


The  Coming  of  the  Children 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  somewhat  flushed  and 
perturbed,  but  he  hastened  to  reply,  "They 
have  been  model  children — but — "  here  he 
hesitated,  "do  you  think  they  had  enough  to 
eat  downstairs?  They  seemed  so  exceedingly 
hungry,  and  it  would  be  so  dreadful " 

"Hungry?"  Miss  Esperance  repeated  in- 
credulously. "Hungry?  They  had  each  a 
large  bowl  of  porridge  and  milk,  and  bread  and 
jam  after  that." 

"Maw  dam,"  Edmund  immediately  struck 
in;  "'at  nasty  dam,"  and  he  pointed  a  scornful 
fat  finger  at  the  pot  of  marmalade. 

Here  Robina  appeared  opportunely  to  take 
them  for  a  walk.  Edmund  roared  at  the  top 
of  his  voice  at  being  reft  from  his  beloved  man. 
But  Miss  Esperance  was  firm. 

When  Elsa  had  cleared  away  Mr.  Wycherly's 
breakfast,  he  found  it  unusually  difficult  to 
concentrate  his  mind  upon  his  great  work  deal- 
ing with  Aristotle's  Nikomachean  Ethics.  Like 
Miss  Esperance,  he  had  had  very  little  break- 
fast. Two  rashers  of  bacon  had  Elsa  provided, 
and  the  usual  four  pieces  of  toast.  Each  little 
boy  had  had  a  rasher.  Edmund  had  eaten 

31 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

three  pieces  of  toast  and  Montagu  the  fourth. 
Edmund  also  drank  all  the  milk  that  he  did 
not  spill.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  fain  to  content 
himself  with  a  cup  of  exceedingly  black  tea,  and 
one  small  piece  of  bread.  But  he  was  quite  un- 
conscious that  he  had  eaten  less  than  usual. 
So  shaken  was  he  out  of  his  customary  dreamy 
calm  that  he  decided  to  go  for  a  walk.  He  did 
not  confess  to  himself  that  he  hoped  he  might 
meet  the  children  while  he  was  out. 


32 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  MR.  WYCHERLY 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

LONGFELLOW. 

FOR  several  days  Mr.  Wycherly's  privacy 
was  not  again  invaded  before  breakfast, 
though  he  heard  through  the  wall  continual 
and  loudly  expressed  demands  to  visit  "man" 
from  his  friend  of  the  curly  pate  and  strap 
shoes.  One  morning,  however,  Robina's  sus- 
picions as  to  Edmund's  propensity  for  roving 
were  lulled  into  security  by  particularly  ex- 
emplary conduct  on  his  part  during  the  time 
of  dressing;  and  she  slipped  downstairs  to  give 
a  hand  with  the  breakfast,  leaving  the  children 
safely  shut  in  their  nursery. 

No  sooner  had  she  departed  than  Montagu, 
of  whom  people  expected  better  things,  sug- 
gested that  they  should  go  and  visit  Mr.  Wy- 

33 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

cherly  next  door.  The  morning  hours  had  been 
so  unusually  quiet  that  that  gentleman  was 
still  dozing,  although  Elsa  had  already  brought 
his  hot  water.  When  he  heard  the  now  un- 
mistakable fumbling  with  the  door  handle, 
which  always  proclaimed  the  advent  of  the 
children,  he  called  out — "Come  in,  but  for 
heaven's  sake  mind  the  hot- water  can." 

In  they  came  without  accident  of  any  kind, 
as  Elsa  had  taken  the  precaution  of  placing 
the  can  well  on  the  hinge  side  of  the  door.  Very 
fresh  and  spick  and  span  did  the  two  little  boys 
look  in  clean,  blue  pinafores,  and  shining  morn- 
ing faces.  Edmund  made  a  dash  for  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly, with  his  usual  joyful  cry  of  "Uppee! 
Uppee!  '  Montagu  hastily  banged  the  door  after 
him  to  keep  Robina  out,  and  he,  too,  climbed 
up  on  Mr.  Wycherly's  bed.  The  soft,  inde- 
scribable fragrance  of  clean  children  was  su- 
premely pleasurable  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  and 
excited  strange,  unfamiliar  stirrings  of  recollec- 
tions, long  buried  but  by  no  means  dead,  of  his 
own  nursery  days  in  the  old  house  in  Shrop- 
shire where  he  and  his  brothers  were  brought 
up. 

34 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

But  there  was  no  time  to  indulge  in  retro- 
spect, for  Edmund  had  already  settled  the 
programme.  "Sing!"  he  commanded.  "Sing, 
man!" 

"I  fear,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said,  somewhat 
breathlessly,  for  Edmund  was  sitting  upon  that 
portion  of  his  body  known  in  sporting  circles  as 
"the  wind,"  "that  I  cannot  sing,  for  I  don't 
know  any  songs." 

"Say,  zen,  say,  man,"  Edmund  cried,  jump- 
ing up  and  down  upon  poor  Mr.  Wycherly's 
yielding  frame. 

"He  means  you  to  say  him  a  poem,"  Montagu 
explained. 

Now  of  poetry  Mr.  Wycherly  knew  plenty, 
both  in  Greek  and  Latin  and  English,  but  none 
of  it  seemed  particularly  suitable  to  the  present 
circumstances.  The  only  lines  that  came  will- 
ingly to  his  call  were — 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste, 

which  he  felt  would  meet  with  but  scant  ap- 
proval from  his  present  audience. 

"Say  'ime,  say  'ime,  man!"  cried  Edmund, 
35 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

with  an  ominous  droop  of  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Say  ' Hickory,  dickory,  dock,"  'Montagu 
suggested  kindly,  "he  likes  that — and  you  tickle 
him  where  it  runs  up,  and  where  it  runs  down, 
and  at  the  end,  you  know." 

"But  I  don't  know  any  poem  called  'Hickory, 
dickory,  dock,'"  Mr.  Wycherly  protested  de- 
spairingly. 

"Say  'ime,  man!  Say  dock!"  Edmund  per- 
sisted, punching  Mr.  Wycherly  in  the  chest  to 
emphasise  his  wishes.  "Say  dock.  Quit." 

"I'll  whisper  it  to  you,"  murmured  the  help- 
ful Montagu,  "it  goes  like  this — 'Hickory,  dick- 
ory, dock." 

"Hickory,  dickory,  dock,"  Mr.  Wycherly  re- 
peated dutifully  and  distinctly. 

"The  mouse  ran  up  the  clock,"  Montagu  con- 
tinued. 

"The  mouse  ran  up  the  clock " 

"But  you  didn't  tickle  him,"  Montagu  in- 
terrupted. 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  at  Edmund,  and  Ed- 
mund looked  with  eager  expectation  at  Mr. 
Wycherly. 

36 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

Now  to  tickle  any  one  appeared  to  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly a  most  unwarrantable  liberty.  Such  a 
mode  of  procedure  had  never  entered  into  his 
scheme  of  life  at  all.  He  was  not  even  sure 
how  he  ought  to  set  about  it.  He  decided  that 
tickling  was  altogether  out  of  his  province,  and 
he  would  not  experiment,  even  upon  Edmund. 

He  cleared  his  throat  nervously.  "Ahem," 
said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "  Hickory,  dickory,  dock, 
the  mouse  ran  up  the  clock " 

"No!  No!"  shouted  Edmund.  "'E  mouse 
'an  down." 

"The  mouse  ran  down  the  clock,"  echoed 
the  obedient  Mr.  Wycherly. 

"No,  No,"  cried  both  the  little  boys.  "The 
clock  struck  one."  Here  Edmund  gave  a  most 
tremendous  bounce  that  really  hurt  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly. 

"Ve  mouse  'an  down,"  he  continued,  scrab- 
bling with  his  fingers  all  over  Mr.  Wycherly's 
face,  and  seizing  him  by  the  collar  of  his  night 
shirt  to  burrow  in  his  neck. 

"Hickory,  dickory,  dock,"  Montagu  concluded 
in  a  joyful  chant.  "Now  you  know  it,  only 
you  must  run  up  and  down,  you  know." 

37 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Oh,  I  really  cannot  do  that,"  Mr.  Wycherly 
expostulated,  "not  before  I  am  dressed." 

Montagu  looked  puzzled.  "You  ought  to 
tickle  us,  you  know,  like  Edmund  did,  and  with 
your  fingers;  it's  quite  easy,  really." 

"Adain!"  Edmund  commanded,  squirming 
and  jumping  all  over  the  very  softest  portions 
of  Mr.  Wycherly's  person,  and  causing  that 
patient  gentleman  acute  agony.  "Adain!" 

"Let  us  all  say  it  together,"  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly gasped,  painfully  drawing  himself  a  little 
higher  up  in  the  bed,  "and  do  you  think 
you  could  sit  a  little  more  to  one  side,  or  a  lit- 
tle further  forward,  or  a  little  lower  down,  or 
anywhere  except  just  where  you  are  at  pres- 
ent?" 

"Edmund  heavy  boy,"  that  youth  remarked 
proudly. 

"He  is,"  Mr.  Wycherly  fervently  agreed,  "a 
very  heavy  boy — ah,  that's  better  now." 

"Hickory,  dickory,  dock"  was  now  performed 
in  chorus,  and  if  one  of  the  trio  made  any  mis- 
takes, his  companions  were  making  such  a  row 
that  they  did  not  detect  him.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  verse  the  little  boys  gave  Mr.  Wy- 

38 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

cherly  a  practical  demonstration  as  to  what 
they  meant  by  tickling. 

It  was  only  when  the  racket  had  somewhat 
subsided  that  they  heard  Robina's  timid  voice 
outside  the  door  bidding  the  children  come  at 
once  to  their  breakfast. 

"Det  up,  man,"  Edmund  directed,  "and  take 
me  to  'Obina." 

"You  are  perfectly  able  to  trot  across  to  the 
door,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  mildly  remonstrant 
and  much  exhausted. 

"Come  in,"  shouted  Edmund,  "come  and 
fesh  me." 

"No,  don't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  cried 
Mr.  Wycherly,  horror-stricken;  "he  can  quite 
well  come  to  you." 

"I'll  surely  no  come  in,"  said  Robina  in  a 
slightly  offended  voice.  "They're  to  come  oot 
at  once,  the  mistress  is  waitin'  breakfast." 

"Me  tiahed,"  Edmund  announced,  languidly 
lying  down  beside  Mr.  Wycherly.  "Me  tay 
heah." 

Robina  knocked  sharply.  "Come  at  once," 
she  cried.  "Please,  sir,  make  them  come,  or 
the  mistress  will  be  rale  vexed." 

39 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Go,  Montagu,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly  firmly. 
"I  suppose  I  must  carry  this — myself." 

Robina,  outside,  heard  much  gurgling  and 
giggling  on  the  part  of  Edmund,  as  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly arose  and  hastily  donned  his  dressing- 
gown.  He  carried  the  struggling  baby  across 
to  the  door,  which  he  had  to  open  widely  in 
order  to  give  his  charge  into  his  nurse's  arms. 
Montagu  departed  with  his  little  brother,  but 
not  one  moment  sooner. 

Mr.  Wycherly  shut  and  locked  his  door,  only 
to  remember  that  he  had  left  his  hot  water 
outside.  When  he  had  secured  it  and  again 
made  the  door  fast,  he  sank  upon  his  bed:  "I 
must  certainly  lock  my  door  overnight,"  he 
reflected;  "to  be  tickled  is  a  truly  dreadful 
experience." 

He  dressed  to  the  rhythm  of  "Hickory, 
dickory,  dock, "and  although  the  two  things  had 
no  sort  of  connection  he  found  himself  thinking 
of  the  forget-me-nots  on  the  banks  of  the 
Cherwell ;  they  were  exactly  the  colour  of  Baby 
Edmund's  eyes. 

It  had  already  become  a  matter  of  course 
that  the  children  should  spend  half  an  hour  iu 

40 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

Mr.  Wycherly's  study  before  they  went  to 
bed. 

They  were  left  in  his  charge  while  Robina 
got  things  ready  for  the  night,  and  he  strove  to 
make  the  time  pass  pleasantly  for  them  by 
every  means  in  his  power.  Edmund's  requests 
were  occasionally  a  little  difficult  to  understand, 
as  although  his  speech  was  fluent  and  his  vocab- 
ulary singularly  large  for  his  age,  he  had  a  habit 
of  omitting  any  consonant  that  was  trouble- 
some to  pronounce.  Both  "1"  and  "r"  were 
of  this  number.  He  did  not  attempt  to  provide 
a  substitute  but  simply  left  the  letter  out,  and 
nothing  delighted  old  Elsa  more  than  to  hear 
him  repeat  after  her — "'ound  the  'ugged  'ock 
the  'adical  'ascals  'an." 

Mr.  Wycherly  did  his  best  to  correct  this  de- 
fect in  Edmund's  speech,  and  on  this  particular 
evening  was  showing  him  a  picture  book  of 
coloured  animals. 

"Poor  little  Edmund  can't  say  lion,"  he  said 
sadly,  apropos  of  a  picture  of  the  king  of  beasts. 

"He  can  say  tigah,"  that  infant  rejoined 
cheerfully;  "no  maw  pitchers.  Man,  make  a 
'abbit,"  and  Edmund  scrambled  off  Mr.  Wy- 

41 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

cherly's  knee  the  better  to  behold  the  feat  in 
question. 

Mr.  Wycherly  shook  his  head  hopelessly 
while  Montagu  shyly  explained:  "He  means  a 
rabbit  out  of  a  handkerchief,  you  know.  Daddic 
always  did  it,  and  it  ran  up  his  arm  and  jumped 
so.  Do  make  one!" 

Mr.  Wycherly  almost  groaned.  He  hadn't 
the  faintest  notion  how  to  make  a  rabbit,  and 
felt  that  he  had  lived  in  vain.  He  proposed 
building  a  tower  with  some  bricks  that  the 
children  had  brought  with  them,  but  Edmund 
would  have  none  of  such  well-worn  devices.  He 
persisted  in  his  demands  for  "a  'abbit,"  grow- 
ing more  and  more  vociferous,  till  his  wishes 
culminated  in  a  roar  that  brought  Robina  to 
the  rescue  and  to  Mr.  Wycherly's  door,  whence 
she  bore  Edmund  away,  wailing  dismally. 

Mr.  Wycherly,  helpless  and  distressed,  looked 
appealingly  at  Montagu,  who  only  said  rather 
reproachfully,  "You  might  learn  to  make  a 
rabbit,  you  know,"  and  followed  Robina. 

Almost  unconsciously  the  student's  eyes 
sought  the  book-shelves  where  generally  was  to 
be  found  any  information  that  he  wanted;  but 

42 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

among  the  familiar  calf-bound  backs  there  was 
not  one  that  seemed  to  promise  any  informa- 
tion about  the  manufacture  of  rabbits,  and  for 
the  first  time  Mr.  Wycherly  felt  dissatisfied 
with  a  scholarship  that  seemed  to  ignore  so 
many  possible  contingencies  in  a  man's  life. 
Of  what  use  was  the  utmost  familiarity  with 
Aristotle's  Politics  if  an  indignant  baby  could 
put  one  so  wholly  out  of  countenance?  For  a 
few  minutes  he  moved  restlessly  about  the 
room,  then  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

He  had  a  vaguely  formulated  plan  in  his  head 
that  he  would  knock  at  the  door  of  every  house 
in  the  village  till  he  found  somebody  capable 
of  instructing  him  in  the  art  of  making  rabbits ; 
for  learn  he  would,  even  if  he  had  to  advertise 
in  the  "Scottish  Press"  for  a  teacher. 

As  he  walked  down  the  road  leading  to  the 
village  he  met  the  minister,  who  immediately 
remarked  that  something  or  other  was  amiss. 
Whether  Edmund  had  ruffled  Mr.  Wycherly's 
hair  and  neck-cloth  as  well  as  his  equanimity 
we  are  not  told,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  Rev- 
erend Peter  Gloag  thought  him  looking  less 
"Oxfordish"  than  usual,  and  stopped  him  to 

43 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

ask  kindly,  "  Nothing  wrong  up  at  the  house  I 
hope?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly, 
stopping  in  his  turn.  "At  least — I  wonder  now 
if  you  happen  to  know  of  any  one  who  can  make 
rabbits  out  of  handkerchiefs?" 

The  minister  stared  at  Mr.  Wycherly  as 
though  for  a  moment  he  feared  for  his  reason, 
then  he  looked  as  though  he  were  about  to 
laugh,  when  quite  suddenly  his  face  changed, 
and  the  eyes  under  his  bushy  eyebrows  were 
wonderfully  kind  and  gentle  as  he  said,  "You'll 
hardly  believe  it,  but  I  can  do  something  in 
that  sort  myself.  I  used  often  to  make  them 
when  the  bairns  were  wee." 

"My  dear  friend,"  Mr.  Wycherly  exclaimed 
delightedly,  "can  you  really?  But  of  course 
you  can,  you  have  children  of  your  own.  Why 
didn't  I  think  of  you  at  the  very  first?  Are  you 
pressed  for  time  at  present?  Could  you  return 
with  me  now,  at  once?" 

For  answer  the  minister  turned  and  walked 
with  Mr.  Wycherly  toward  Remote,  and  not 
only  did  he  teach  him  how  to  make  the  most 
lively  and  enchanting  of  rabbits,  but  he  also 

44 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

instructed  him  how  to  originate  one  " Sandy," 
who  sat  on  the  manipulator's  hand,  whose  arms 
were  worked  by  his  fingers,  a  creature  of  in- 
finite jest  and  dexterity.  Mr.  Wycherly  was 
not  half  so  elated  when  he  got  the  Newdigate 
as  when  he  achieved  this  latter  feat. 

But  Oh,  dear  me,  Mr.  Wycherly  had  a  tre- 
mendous deal  to  learn !  Every  day  was  he  con- 
fronted with  new  deficiencies  in  his  education. 
The  constant  demand  for  songs  was  most  em- 
barrassing :  even  Miss  Esperance  seemed  to  fail 
the  children  here,  for  although  she  knew  in- 
numerable psalms  and  hymns  and  spiritual 
songs,  and  endless  and  delightful  Scottish  bal- 
lads, yet  her  repertoire  of  purely  nursery  ditties 
was  but  small.  It  was  heartrending  to  Mr. 
Wycherly,  when,  during  their  first  days  at  Re- 
mote, Edmund  would  remark  reproachfully 
anent  his  inability  to  sing  some  hitherto  un- 
heard-of nursery  song,  "Mamma  singed  it." 
And  the  eyes  of  Miss  Esperance  would  fill  with 
tears  at  the  thought  of  these  two  little  ones 
bereft  of  their  young  parents,  who  seemed  to 
have  been  so  light-hearted,  so  ready  to  sing 
upon  every  possible  occasion.  No  books  of 
45 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

nursery  rhymes  had  come  with  the  children 
from  Portsmouth.  Perhaps  they  were  for- 
gotten in  the  hurry  of  their  departure.  Per- 
haps they  did  not  exist:  where  was  the  need, 
with  a  girl-mother  whose  store  of  such  ditties 
seemed  inexhaustible?  It  did  not  occur  either 
to  Miss  Esperance  or  Mr.  Wycherly  that  such 
books  could  be  purchased.  It  is  true  that  the 
latter  received  many  catalogues,  but  they 
mostly  concerned  learned  works  dealing  with 
the  more  obscure  of  the  Latin  authors. 

Miss  Esperance  possessed  a  whole  shelf  of 
little  "Gilt-Books,"  which  had  belonged  to  her 
mother  and  herself,  and  Mr.  Wycherly  fever- 
ishly rummaged  among  these  to  find  some 
childish  lore  suitable  for  the  little  boys:  with 
the  result  that  he  became  exceedingly  interested 
in  the  books  from  an  antiquarian  point  of  view, 
and  forgot  his  original  quest.  They  were  most 
of  them  published  by  John  Newbery,  the  phi- 
lanthropic bookseller  in  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard, 
who  bought  the  MS.  of  the  "Vicar  of  Wake- 
field"  for  sixty  pounds  and  kept  it  two  years 
before  he  published  it.  One  find,  however,  he 
did  make,  a  tiny  two-inch  "  Cries  of  London, 
46 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

as  they  are  Exhibited  in  the  Streets,  With  an 
Epigram  in  verse  adapted  to  Each,  embellished 
with  sixty-two  elegant  Cuts."  Some  of  these 
epigrams  found  much  favour  with  the  children, 
as,  "My  old  Soul,  will  you  buy  a  Bowl?" 
"Who  Buys  my  Pig  and  Plumb  Sauce,"  or — 

Who  liveth  so  merry  in  all  this  land, 

As  doth  the  poor  Widow  that  selleth  the  Sand  ? 

And  ever  she  singeth,  as  I  can  guess, 

"  Will  you  buy  any  Sand,  any  Sand,  Mistress  ?  * 

He  also  discovered  among  the  verses  of  that 
most  genial  and  child-like  of  poets,  Robert 
Herrick,  many  rhymes  that  delighted  the  chil- 
dren, a  special  favourite  being  the  old  watch 
rhyme — 

From  noise  of  scare  fires  rest  ye  free, 
From  murders,  Benedicite. 
From  all  mischances  that  may  fright 
Your  pleasing  slumbers  in  the  night, 
Mercy  secure  ye  all  and  keep 
The  Goblin  from  ye  while  ye  sleep. 
Past  one  o'clock  and  almost  two, 
My  masters  all,  Good  day  to  you. 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  a  little  put  to  it  to  ex- 
plain the  " Goblin,"  as  he  would  not  for  the 
47 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

world  have  told  the  children  anything  that 
might  frighten  them.  He  passed  it  over 
lightly  as  "a  bad  dream/'  and  when  Montagu 
further  demanded  what  that  was,  Mr.  Wycherly 
felt  inexpressibly  comforted  at  the  child's  ig- 
norance; he  had  dreamed  so  many  evil  dreams 
himself. 

Summer  had  passed,  the  late  September  days 
were  drawing  in,  but  it  was  still  almost  hot, 
as  it  often  is  in  autumn  in  the  north.  Even 
Mr.  Wycherly,  who  was  always  cold,  admitted 
that  the  weather  had  remained  agreeably  mild. 
And  when  Lady  Alicia  came,  and  partly  by 
means  of  bluster  and  partly  by  reason  of  pro- 
longed petitioning,  succeeded  in  carrying  off 
Miss  Esperance  to  dine  at  the  Big  House,  Mr. 
Wycherly  seconded  her  efforts  nobly.  She  had 
asked  Mr.  Wycherly,  too,  but  he  never  went 
anywhere,  and  on  this  occasion  he  had  pointed 
out  that  his  presence  made  it  perfectly  safe  for 
Miss  Esperance  to  leave  the  children.  He 
would  sit  with  his  door  open,  so  that  he  would 
hear  the  faintest  sound  in  the  children's  room, 
he  would  go  and  see  them  last  thing — "and 
hear  them  their  prayers,"  Miss  Esperance 

48 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

anxiously  interpolated — he  would  do  every- 
thing that  Miss  Esperance  usually  did. 

"Now  there's  nothing  whatever  can  happen 
to  those  children,"  said  Lady  Alicia,  as  they 
drove  away.  "  They  're  both  looking  as  brown 
and  bonny  as  they  can  well  look,  and  once 
they're  in  their  beds,  they'll  just  sleep  the 
round  of  the  clock.  As  for  you,  my  dear, 
you've  hardly  been  out  of  the  house  since  they 
came,  and  it's  very  bad  for  you." 

As  a  rule  the  children  did  sleep  the  round  of 
the  clock,  but  on  this  particular  evening,  al- 
though they  went  to  sleep  directly  they  were 
"bedded,"  as  Robina  put  it,  and  she  had  gone 
home  for  the  night,  while  Elsa  had  retired  to 
the  back  door  for  a  gossip  with  the  minister's 
maid,  Edmund  took  it  into  his  head  to  wake 
up. 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair 
reading  "Marius  the  Epicurean."  It  was  one 
of  his  many  imperfections,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Burnhead,  that  he  was  known 
to  revel  in  the  works  of  "yon  man,  Pater." 
The  very  name  seemed  redolent  of  papistry, 
even  if  the  man  himself  did  not  happen  to  be  a 

49 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

papist,  and  it  was  known  that  the  Reverend 
Peter  Gloag  did  not  approve  of  his  writings. 
In  an  English  village  nobody  would  have  con- 
cerned himself  as  to  what  anybody  read — the 
amount  of  reading  done  at  all  being  quite  a 
negligible  quantity — but  in  a  Scottish  village, 
where  the  cobbler  probably  reads  the  "  Saturday 
Review"  and  the  works  of  Carlyle  are  as  house- 
hold words,  people  regard  the  reading  of  their 
neighbours. 

The  light  from  the  lamp  fell  full  on  Mr. 
Wycherly's  white  hair  and  regular,  scholarly 
profile;  and  the  figure  in  the  chair  made  a 
pleasant  picture  of  erudite  repose.  There  was 
something  clear-cut  and  delicately  finished 
about  everything  connected  with  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's appearance.  One  long,  slim  hand  with 
exquisitely  tended  nails  held  his  book;  the 
other  kept  up  a  noiseless  rhythmic  beat  upon 
the  arm  of  his  chair. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  little  sound,  an  inde- 
scribable small  sound  as  of  some  soft  body 
moving.  He  laid  down  his  book  and  leant  for- 
ward to  listen.  Again  he  heard  it,  and  with  it 
a  request  for  "  'Obina."  It  was  not  a  cry;  it 
50 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

was  rather  a  curious,  tentative  flinging  of  the 
word  into  space  to  see  what  would  happen. 

The  children's  door  was  closed  but  not  fas- 
tened, Mr.  Wycherly's  was  wide  open,  and  he 
immediately  hurried  across  the  landing  to  the 
children's  room.  The  light  from  his  lamp 
exactly  opposite  to  their  door,  shone  in  as  he 
pushed  it  open,  showing  a  fair,  curly  head  and 
a  pair  of  bright  eyes  appearing  above  the  side  of 
the  cot.  Montagu  was  still  fast  asleep. 

"Lie  down,  my  child,"  Mr.  Wycherly  whis- 
pered, "it  is  night  time,  you  must  go  to  sleep 
again." 

"No,"  said  Edmund  firmly  but  kindly,  "you 
must  take  me." 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  at  the  wide-awake 
mutinous  person  in  the  cot,  then  he  looked  at 
the  peacefully  sleeping  Montagu  in  the  big  four- 
post  bed.  To  engage  in  argument  with  Edmund 
meant  the  inevitable  waking  of  his  brother. 
For  there  would  be  tears;  perhaps  loud  out- 
cries  which  would  bring  Elsa,  scornful  and 
capable,  to  his  assistance. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  in  some  respects  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  a  weak  man.  He  would  do  any- 

51 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

thing  to  avoid  a  disturbance,  almost  anything 
to  avoid  an  argument.  Small  wonder,  then, 
that  he  was  despised  in  Burnhead,  where  argu- 
ment flourished  as  the  green  bay  tree  and  was 
the  chief  object  of  social  intercourse. 

He  wrapped  Edmund  in  his  quilt,  carried  him 
across  to  the  study,  and  sat  down  in  his  big 
chair  with  the  deliciously  warm,  naughty  bun- 
dle on  his  knee.  Edmund  blinked  at  the 
bright  light,  wriggled  his  arms  out  of  the  en- 
wrapping counterpane,  and  remarked  "Bikky" 
in  a  tone  whose  subtly  seductive  combination 
of  command  and  supplication  Mr.  Wycherly 
never  could  resist.  The  children  had  not  been 
three  months  in  the  house  without  teaching  him 
to  keep  a  store  of  biscuits  in  his  cupboard. 
When  Edmund  was  duly  supplied,  he  leant  his 
head  luxuriously  against  Mr.  Wycherly's  shoul- 
der, saying  sleepily,  "Say,  deah  man — say  any- 
sing." 

This  was  gracious  of  Edmund,  and  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly had  already  discovered  that  when  the 
baby  was  sleepy  he  did  not  cavil  even  at  Latin 
verse.  Mr.  Wycherly  had  a  singularly  musical 
voice;  and  as  he  "said,"  the  biscuit  dropped 
52 


The  Education  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

from  Edmund's  hand  and  his  head  lay  heavy 
on  the  kind  shoulder  that  supported  it.  As  the 
reciter  reached  the  lines:  "Duke  ridentem 
Lalagen  amabo,  Duke  loquentem,"  he  discovered, 
to  his  joy,  that  Edmund  was  asleep.  Softly 
he  repeated  the  musical  last  two  lines  again, 
smiling  down  at  the  little  figure  in  his  arms. 
But  it  was  not  of  Lalage  that  Mr.  Wycherly  was 
thinking. 

He  succeeded  in  putting  Edmund  into  bed 
without  waking  him,  and  just  as  he  had  got 
back  to  his  study  he  heard  Miss  Esperance  come 
in. 

Softly  he  closed  the  door  so  that  it  only  stood 
open  a  little  way,  and  seated  himself  once  more 
in  his  favourite  chair.  If  all  was  quiet  it  was 
quite  unlikely  Miss  Esperance  would  come  to 
speak  to  him  that  night.  She  would  go  straight 
to  her  little  bedroom  next  that  of  the  children. 
He  heard  her  door  shut.  Mr.  Wycherly  rubbed 
his  hands  together  quite  gleefully.  "I  really 
am  learning  how  to  manage  those  children," 
he  said. 


53 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   SECRETIVENESS   OF  MAUSE 

A  boy  and  a  dog  together  will  go, 

You  may  jail  them,  or  chain  them:  They  will  have  it  so. 

Anon. 

MAUSE  was  the  bobtailed  sheep-dog  that 
lived  in  a  kennel  at  the  side  of  the  house 
nearest  the  back  door,  to  keep  guard.  Like 
Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly  and  Elsa, 
she  was  not  in  her  first  youth;  and  when  the 
children  came  Miss  Esperance  was  nervously 
apprehensive  as  to  the  old  dog's  conduct. 
Would  she  be  jealous  and  growl  at  them,  or 
perhaps  even  fly  out  at  them  from  her  kennel 
as  she  did  at  the  village  boys  if  they  ventured 
into  the  garden  for  any  illegitimate  purpose? 
A  good  watch-dog  was  Mause,  with  more  dis^ 
crimination  in  her  vigilance  than  is  displayed 
by  most  dogs.  She  never  barked  at  poor  old 
Mistress  Dobie,  who  would  come  humbly  to  the 
back  door  for  her  bi-weekly  handful  of  meal 
54 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

and  a  screw  of  snuff,  who  looked  a  very  scare- 
crow of  shabbiness,  and  tapped  with  her  staff 
as  she  walked:  but  Mause  did  bark,  and  bark 
loudly,  only  pausing  every  now  and  then  to 
growl  thunderously,  at  the  very  grand  gentle- 
man who  tried  to  sell  Elsa  an  inferior  sewing- 
machine  on  the  hire  system.  And  when  he 
returned  a  few  weeks  later  with  Bibles,  Mause 
nearly  broke  her  chain  in  her  frantic  attempts 
to  reach  him.  The  poor  dog  was  kept  chained 
up  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  which  is 
never  improving  to  the  canine  temper  even 
when,  as  in  this  case,  the  chain  is  a  long  one. 
Miss  Esperance  let  her  run  by  the  pony  trap 
whenever  she  drove  into  Edinburgh,  but  this 
was  by  no  means  every  day,  and  Elsa  rather 
grudged  poor  Mause  even  these  occasional  ab- 
sences, and  generally  put  the  chains  on  both 
doors  when  she  had  gone. 

"A  watch-dog  sud  be  there  to  guard  the 
hoose,"  said  Elsa,  "and  no  gang  stravaigin  aff 
for  hoors  at  a  stretch." 

Mr.  Wycherly  took  Mause  for  a  walk  when- 
ever he  went  for  one  himself,  and  she  greatly 
enjoyed  these  excursions,  which  were,  however, 
55 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

but  fleeting  joys;  for  Mr.  Wycherly 's  walks 
were  by  no  means  prolonged.  That  he  should 
go  for  walks  at  all  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  vil- 
lagers of  Burnhead,  but  another  sign  of  his 
general  futility  and  "genty  ways,"  like  his 
bath  and  the  wooden  feet  in  three  pieces  that 
he  liked  kept  in  his  boots,  "just  as  if  he  was 
feart  some  ither  body  sud  wear  them."  Be- 
sides, what  could  a  man  who  hardly  ever 
stirred  abroad  want  with  six  pairs  of  boots? 
The  folk  in  the  village  pitied  Elsa  that  she  had 
to  give  in  to  such  havers. 

On  rare  occasions  Mause  managed  to  sneak 
into  the  house  with  Mr.  Wycherly  and  secrete 
herself  in  his  room:  but  he  did  not  encourage 
these  clandestine  visits,  for  when  Elsa  dis- 
covered her — as  she  invariably  did — she  drove 
the  poor  beast  forth  with  much  contumely;  and 
Mr.  Wycherly  was  haunted  for  hours  afterward 
by  the  reproach  in  the  eyes  of  Mause  that  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  take  her  part. 

Yet  Mause  was  fond  of  Elsa,  and  in  her  heart 

of  hearts  Elsa  loved  Mause.    She  would  far 

sooner  have  gone  without  her  own  meals  than 

have  omitted  the  plate  of  broken  biscuit  and 

56 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

bones  that  she  carried  twice  daily  to  the  ken- 
nel. Every  day  she  filled  the  dog's  tin  with 
fresh  water,  and  she  brushed  the  thick,  shaggy 
coat  as  religiously  and  even  more  vigorously 
than  she  brushed  Mr.  Wycherly's  clothes.  It 
grieved  her  rather  that  the  latter,  like  Mause, 
wore  the  same  coat  week-days  and  Sun- 
days. 

Mause  was  meekness  and  gentleness  itself 
with  the  dwellers  at  Remote,  but  outsiders  gave 
her  a  very  different  character,  and  the  Rev- 
erend Peter  Gloag  even  went  so  far  as  to  re- 
monstrate with  Miss  Esperance  for  keeping  such 
a  savage  brute  about  the  place.  Not  that 
Mause  had  ever  actually  bitten  even  a  man 
selling  sewing-machines,  but  she  had  a  way  of 
barking  and  bouncing,  of  growling  and  gyrating 
at  the  full  length  of  her  chain,  that  was  decidedly 
alarming;  and  if  she  happened  to  be  loose,  her 
swift  rush  to  the  gate«at  the  sound  of  arrange 
foot-step  was  disconcerting  in  the  extreme. 
What  would  she  say  to  the  children? 

"If  she's  ill-natured  with  them,  she'll  have 
to  go,  poor  beastie,"  Miss  Esperance  had  said, 
as  they  drove  from  the  station  with  the  two 

57 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

tired,  cross,  little  boys  on  that  first  day.  "  She's 
a  dear,  faithful  animal,  but  I  could  not  let  such 
wee  things  be  frightened." 

However,  the  fears  of  Miss  Esperance  were 
groundless.  From  the  first  moment  that  she 
beheld  the  little  boys,  Mause  took  them  under 
her  protection.  Perhaps  it  was  that  neither 
of  the  children  showed  the  slightest  fear  of  the 
great,  clumsy,  shaggy  beast,  but  greeted  her 
with  joyful  outcries,  instantly  demanding  her 
release  from  that  harassing  chain.  The  right 
kind  of  dog  and  the  right  kind  of  child  are 
friends  always,  by  some  immutable,  inscrutable 
law  of  attraction.  It  seemed  almost  as  if 
Mause  mistook  Montagu  and  Edmund  for  the 
puppies  which  had  been  her  pride  some  five 
years  before.  And  the  baby  certainly  did  his 
very  best  to  confirm  her  in  her  mistake.  Like 
a  puppy,  he  had  a  fondness  for  carrying  off 
numerous  and  inconceivably  incongruous  ar- 
ticles from  places  where  they  ought  to  be  to 
distant  parts  of  the  garden,  where  he  would  be 
found  surrounded  by  a  selection  of  improvised 
playthings,  while  Mause  sat  by  regarding  the 
work  of  destruction  with  her  tongue  hanging 
58 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

out,  and  an  expression  of  maternal  pride  upon 
her  broad  and  blurry  countenance. 

When  the  children  played  in  the  garden  their 
first  thought  was  that  Mause  must  play  too. 
"She  must  be  very  lonely  in  that  little  wooden 
house,"  Montagu  said  pleadingly.  "She  would 
be  so  happy  with  us,  and  we  do  want  her  so." 
And  Edmund  roared  and  refused  to  be  com- 
forted unless  his  "big  bow-wow"  might  go  with 
him  whenever  Robina  took  him  out  in  his 
perambulator. 

There  was  a  little  plot  of  shaven  grass  in  the 
garden  at  Remote,  and  on  this  Edmund  and 
Mause  and  Montagu  spent  many  an  hour  at 
play,  while  Robina  sat  by  demurely  knitting 
at  a  stocking.  It  was  Edmund's  habit  when 
he  fell  down  (a  somewhat  frequent  occurrence 
that  did  not  disturb  him  in  the  least  unless  he 
happened  to  fall  on  "something  scratchful")  to 
grasp  firmly  in  each  little  hand  a  handful  of 
the  dog's  thick  hair,  and  by  this  means  pull 
himself  up  to  his  feet  again.  Mause  bore  it 
stoically,  and  generally  turned  her  patient  face 
that  she  might  lick  the  small,  fat  hands  that 
hurt  her.  And  by  the  time  the  children  had 
59 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

been  a  month  at  Remote   Manse  was  only 
chained  up  at  night. 

One  hot  afternoon  in  late  September  Mr. 
Wycherly  had  taken  Montagu  for  a  walk  to  a 
wood,  near  where  there  was  a  tiny  tributary 
of  the  bigger  burn  from  which  the  village  took 
its  name.  So  narrow  was  this  stream  that 
Montagu  could  jump  over  it :  and  it  was  one  of 
his  greatest  joys  to  be  taken  there  and  to  leap 
solemnly  from  one  side  to  the  other  during  a 
whole  afternoon,  provided  that  at  each  effort 
his  audience  made  some  suitably  admirative 
remark. 

Robina's  patience  failed  her  after  about 
three  demonstrations  of  Montagu's  saltatory 
prowess,  but  Mr.  Wycherly  would  take  his  seat 
at  the  foot  of  a  big  tree,  and  with  tireless  inter- 
est notice  every  jump,  finding  something  new 
and  congratulatory  to  say  after  each  fresh  effort. 

Robina,  Edmund  and  Mause  remained  at 
home:  baby  and  dog  disporting  themselves 
upon  the  little  square  of  turf,  while  Robina  sat 
in  the  shade  doing  the  mending.  Elsa  was 
busy  in  the  house  and  Miss  Esperance  had  gone 
to  a  sewing  meeting  at  the  manse. 

60 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  was  a  low  stone 
wall,  and  beyond  that  wall  a  lane.  From  that 
lane  presently  there  came  a  sound  of  light- 
hearted  whistling  as  Sandie,  the  flesher,  his 
empty  butcher's  tray  borne  lightly  on  his 
shoulder,  returned  from  the  delivery  of  meat 
at  the  "Big  Hoose." 

Sandie,  the  flesher,  could  see  over  the  wall, 
and  he  beheld  Robina  sitting  under  the  alder 
tree.  He  thought  her  fair  to  look  upon,  and 
his  whistling  ceased.  Robina  gave  one  hasty 
glance  back  at  the  house.  Elsa  was  making 
scones  and  would  be  far  too  busy  to  look  out 
of  the  window  just  then:  besides,  one  could  see 
very  little  from  the  kitchen  window  save  the 
raspberry  canes,  as  Robina  was  sadly  aware. 
Edmund  and  Mause  were  engaged  in  an  intricate 
game  of  ball.  They  alone  knew  the  rules,  but 
they  appeared  to  find  it  of  absorbing  interest. 
Once  more  Robina  looked  back  at  the  house, 
and  then  flew  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden 
to  speak  to  Sandie. 

We  all  know  that  there  are  minutes  that 
seem  as  hours,  and  hours  that  slip  by  as  a 
single  moment  of  time.  Robina's  conversation 

61 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

with  Sandie  was  somewhat  prolonged,  but 
doubtless  for  them  it  passed  even  as  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye. 

When  at  last  she  tore  herself  away  from 
Sandie 's  blandishments  and  returned  hot-footed 
to  her  charge,  baby  and  dog  were  gone.  The 
worsted  ball  and  the  mending  lay  on  the  grass, 
and  perfect  quiet  reigned  in  the  garden  of 
Remote. 

" He'll  be  in  mischief  somewhere,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "The  wee  Turk!" 

For  it  was  only  when  he  was  in  mischief  that 
the  continual  flow  of  Edmund's  conversation 
ceased,  and  he  was  traced  by  his  silences  rather 
than  by  his  sounds. 

Warily  did  Robina  search  through  every 
nook  and  corner  of  that  garden:  behind  rasp- 
berry canes,  between  gooseberry  bushes,  even 
among  the  cabbages,  but  nowhere  was  there 
any  sign  of  either  child  or  dog.  The  girl's  heart 
sank.  Edmund  had  probably  gone  back  to  the 
house  and  Elsa  had  just  kept  him  that  she  might 
the  better  come  down  on  his  young  nurse  for 
her  carelessness.  Robina  well  knew  the  awful 
"radgin"  that  awaited  her  if  this  were  the  case. 
62 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

It  was  just  possible  that  the  baby  had  toddled 
round  to  the  front  and  was  playing  among  the 
flower  beds,  doing  damage  in  exactly  inverse 
ratio  to  his  size  and  weight.  As  she  passed  the 
open  kitchen  window  Robina  looked  in:  a 
great  gust  of  hot  air  laden  with  the  clean,  good 
smell  of  newly  made  scones  met  her.  Elsa  was 
over  at  the  fire  giving  the  scones,  still  on  the 
griddle,  an  occasional  poke  with  her  gnarled  old 
finger.  Edmund  most  certainly  was  not  there. 
Robina's  spirits  rose.  She  might  escape  the 
"radgin"  after  all.  She  ran  round  to  the  front, 
but  there  was  no  baby  here  either;  the  tidy 
little  garden  with  its  gay  flower  beds  on  either 
side  of  the  broad  central  path  lay  peaceful  and 
deserted  in  the  cool  shadow  thrown  by  the 
house  itself.  She  noticed  that  the  green  gate 
was  unlatched  and  she  began  to  feel  anxious, 
and  not  wholly  on  her  own  account.  Where 
could  that  baby  have  got  to,  and  where  hi  all 
the  world  was  Mause? 

Robina  hurried  to  the  back  garden  again  and 
went  over  every  inch  of  ground,  with  no  more 
success  than  the  first  time. 

She  was  now  very  frightened  indeed.  She 
63 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

hunted  in  the  stable,  she  looked  in  the  loft,  she 
even  took  all  the  tools  out  of  the  tool-house 
lest  Edmund  might  be  secreted  behind  them; 
but  it  was  all  useless,  baby  and  dog  had  com- 
pletely vanished. 

All  this  searching  had  taken  some  time.  The 
afternoon  began  to  wane,  it  would  soon  be  tea 
time.  Miss  Esperance  would  return  from  her 
sewing  meeting,  and  even  as  it  was,  Robina 
heard  Mr.  Wycherly  and  Montagu  come  into 
the  house. 

She  rushed  to  Elsa  in  the  kitchen,  where  that 
worthy  woman  was  arranging  her  last  batch  of 
scones  round  the  top  of  the  wire  seive  to  cool. 

"The  wee  boy's  lost!"  cried  Robina  desper- 
ately. "I  can  find  him  nowhere  and  no  place, 
and  the  dug's  awa'  too." 

Mr.  Wycherly  and  Montagu  heard  the  loud 
excited  voices  in  the  kitchen,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  all  the  years  he  had  spent  with  Miss 
Esperance  Mr.  Wycherly  entered  the  domain 
sacred  to  Elsa.  He  questioned  Robina  very 
gently  and  quietly,  but  could  obtain  no  in- 
formation that  threw  any  light  upon  Edmund's 
mysterious  disappearance. 
64 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

They  searched  the  house  thoroughly,  but 
with  no  success,  and  all  four  had  gone  out  to 
look  once  more  in  the  garden  when  Montagu 
exclaimed,  "Why  Mause  is  here,  in  her  kennel, 
and  she's  not  chained  up." 

The  kennel  was  a  large  one,  but  Mause  also 
was  large  and  effectually  blocked  the  doorway. 

"We'd  better  take  her  with  us,"  said  Mr. 
Wycherly,  who  was  preparing  to  scour  the 
village.  "She'll  find  him  sooner  than  any  of  us." 

But  to  their  astonishment  Mause  did  not 
come  to  call.  She  refused  to  budge,  and  if 
any  one  came  near  her  except  Montagu  she 
growled  ominously  and  showed  her  teeth,  a 
thing  she  had  never  done  to  members  of  her 
own  household  in  the  whole  of  her  existence. 

By  this  time  Miss  Esperance  had  returned 
and  was  gravely  disquieted  by  the  news  that 
met  her,  most  of  all  by  the  fact  that  Mause 
should  have  deserted  Edmund  and  that  she 
should  be  so  surly  in  her  temper. 

"I  can't  think  what  can  have  come  over  the 
dog,"  cried  poor  Miss  Esperance.  "Don't  go 
near  her,  Montagu,  my  son.  I  just  wish  she 
was  on  the  chain." 

65 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"I'll  put  the  chain  on  her,  auntie;  I'm  not 
afraid,"  cried  Montagu,  breaking  from  his 
aunt's  detaining  hand ;  and  sure  enough,  Mause 
made  not  the  smallest  objection,  but  licked 
Montagu's  hand,  and  gazed  with  speaking, 
pathetic  eyes  at  the  group  around  the  kennel, 
although  she  would  allow  no  one  to  approach 
her  except  the  little  boy. 

"The  gate  was  unlatched  when  we  came  in," 
said  Mr.  Wycherly.  "I  noticed  that.  I  think 
he  must  have  strayed  into  the  village,  and 
we'll  probably  find  him  in  one  of  the  cottages. 
What  I  cannot  understand  is  that  Mause 
should  have  left  him." 

"Mebbe  some  gaun-aboot-body's  ta'en  him," 
wailed  Robina,  "and  drove  the  dug  awa'." 

"Hoot  fie!"  cried  Elsa,  indignantly.  "They 
gaun-aboot-bodies  has  plenty  bairns  o'  their 
ain  wi'oot  nain  o'  oor's." 

"The  burn's  gey  and  deep  up  the  rod," 
sobbed  Robina,  who  was  determined  to  take 
the  gloomiest  view  of  things. 

Miss  Esperance  looked  at  Mr.  Wycherly,  and 
both  were  very  pale.  "Elsa  and  I  will  go  into 
the  village,"  she  said  tremulously.  "Will  you, 
66 


The  Secretiveness  of  Mause 

dear  friend,  go — the  other  way?  You  would 
be  of  more  use  if — anything — 

Miss  Esperance  paused,  unable  to  voice  the 
dreadful  fear  that  possessed  her. 

Montagu  had  sat  down  on  the  ground  beside 
Mause,  facing  the  kennel,  with  his  arm  round 
her  shaggy  neck ;  he  leant  his  head  against  her, 
for  he  felt  that  she  was  in  some  sort  of  disgrace, 
and  needed  comforting.  A  sudden  shaft  of 
sunlight  shone  full  on  the  pretty  group.  ' '  Why, 
he's  in  there  all  the  time,"  Montagu  cried  ex- 
citedly. "I  can  see  him;  he's  fast  asleep  in 
Mause's  kennel,  and  that's  why  she  wouldn't 
come  out." 

The  shrill  voice  woke  the  baby,  who  stirred, 
rolled  over,  and  finally  crawled  out  from  his 
hiding-place,  flushed  and  tumbled  with  little 
beads  of  perspiration  all  over  his  nose.  Mause 
politely  making  way  for  him  the  instant  he 
showed  a  desire  to  come  out. 

As  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  he  beheld  Mr. 
Wycherly,  and  gave  his  usual  cry  of  "Man! 
Uppie,  uppie!"  and  was  somewhat  bewildered 
by  the  effusion  with  which  that  same  man 
caught  him  up  in  his  arms.  Miss  Esperance 
67 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

grasped  his  fat  legs  and  wept  over  them; 
Robina  and  Elsa  caught  at  any  possible  portion 
of  his  clothing  and  wept  over  that.  In  fact, 
they  all  more  or  less  hung  on  to  Mr.  Wycherly 
in  their  excitement,  while  the  cause  of  all  this 
enthusiasm  blinked  his  sleepy  eyes  and  won- 
dered what  it  was  all  about.  Mause  ran  round 
and  round  in  a  circle,  hanging  out  her  tongue 
and  giving  occasional  short,  sharp  barks,  ex- 
pressive of  approval. 

Presently,  when  the  women  let  go  of  him, 
Edmund  bent  down  to  scratch  one  of  his  fat 
pink  legs.  "I  fink,"  he  said  majestically,  "vat 
a  fee  has  bited  me." 

Mause  looked  apologetic,  and  licked  the  spot. 


68 


CHAPTER  V 

ROBINA 

Jenny  rade  tae  Cowtstan,  tae  Cowtstan,  tae  Cowtstan, 
Jenny  rade  tae  Cowtstan  upon  a  barra'pin  O! 
An'  aye  as  she  wallopit,  she  wallopit,  she  wallopit, 
An'  aye  as  she  wallopit,  she  aye  fell  ahin'  O! 

Old  Song. 

TT^OR  Robina,  it  was  a  distinct  rise  in  the 
JL  social  scale  to  have  taken  service  with 
Miss  Esperance.  Any  lass  could  get  a  place  at 
the  term  in  Edinburgh,  but  only  one  lass  in  the 
whole  village  could  have  been  chosen  to  look 
after  the  little  newcomers  at  Remote. 

In  the  village  Miss  Esperance  was  familiarly 
known  as  "the  wee  leddy":  and  in  the  eyes  of 
Burnhead  the  fact  that  she  lived  in  an  ex- 
tremely small  house  with  one  old  servant,  and 
did  a  large  portion  of  the  household  work  her- 
self, in  no  way  detracted  from  her  dignity.  In 
Burnhead,  too,  there  were  people  who  remem- 
bered her  father,  the  Admiral — "a  gran'  man 
yon!  A  radgy  man  whiles,  mind  ye,  but  a  rale 

69 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

man.  When  he  gave  ye  a  glass  he  aye  looket 
the  ither  way  and  left  ye  to  help  yersen — eh, 
but  he  was  a  gran'  man  yon!" 

Lady  Alicia  had  described  Robina  as  "douce," 
and  that  young  woman  fully  acted  up  to  this 
reputation  during  her  first  weeks  at  Remote. 
She  trembled  and  cringed  before  Elsa.  She 
dropped  whatever  she  happened  to  be  holding 
if  suddenly  addressed  by  Miss  Esperance,  while 
in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Wycherly  extreme  shy- 
ness lent  to  her  appearance  an  expression  of 
such  abject  imbecility  as  caused  that  gentleman 
to  demand  anxiously  of  her  mistress  whether 
she  thought  it  was  safe  to  allow  Robina  to  take 
the  children  for  walks. 

Once  outside  the  walls  of  Remote,  however, 
Robina's  whole  attitude  changed.  She  bridled: 
she  minced:  she  was  positively  swollen  with 
pride  in  the  importance  of  her  position;  and 
when  she  condescended  to  exchange  remarks 
with  such  neighbours  as  she  met,  her  demeanour 
was  distant  and  haughty.  No  sooner  had  she 
set  forth  with  Edmund  in  the  perambulator 
and  Montagu  trotting  by  her  side,  than  she  at 
once  radiated  an  atmosphere  of  "say  nothing 

70 


Robina 

to  nobody"  so  forbidding  as  to  discourage  all 
attempts  at  sociability  except  on  the  part  of 
the  boldest.  Everybody  wanted  to  see  the 
little  boys,  who  were,  themselves,  most  friendly 
and  approachable  and  always  ready  to  respond 
to  the  overtures  of  kindly  neighbours. 

A  comely  lass  was  Robina,  sturdy  and  thick- 
set, but  with  the  exquisite  colouring  often  to 
be  found  among  the  Lowland  Scottish  peasantry; 
and  of  late  her  rosy  cheeks  had  bloomed  to  a 
deeper  rose,  while  her  forehead  and  chin  and 
neck  were  white  as  the  elder  flower  growing 
against  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Very  blue  eyes  had  Robina,  and  thick,  wavy 
hair — red  hair  that  would  escape  from  its  tight 
braids  in  frivolous  little  curls  at  the  nape  of 
her  neck  and  round  her  ears.  From  far  away, 
Sandie,  the  flesher,  would  espy  that  brilliant 
hair  burning  like  a  lamp,  and  wheresoever  that 
beacon  shone  there  would  Sandie  be  fain  to 
follow.  He  escorted  her  from  her  home  to 
Remote  in  the  early  morning,  and  was  gen- 
erally waiting  at  a  safe  distance  from  Remote 
to  walk  home  with  her  in  the  evening.  So  de- 
voted was  he,  that  Robina  had  as  yet  made 

71 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

an  exception  in  his  favour,  and  in  spite  of  her 
exalted  position  treated  him  with  moderate 
friendliness. 

The  day  that  Edmund  was  lost  she  had  got 
off  comparatively  lightly.  The  household  at 
Remote  was  so  excited  over  finding  the  baby 
in  Mause's  kennel  that  they  all  forgot  to  inquire 
till  some  time  afterwards,  how  in  the  world  he 
had  got  there  without  the  knowledge  of  his 
nurse.  Robina  did  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  mention  her  conversation  with  Sandie,  and 
beyond  a  moderate  amount  of  cavilling  on  the 
part  of  Elsa,  very  little  had  been  said. 

One  afternoon,  during  the  same  week,  she 
took  the  small  boys  for  a  walk  along  the  high- 
road leading  to  Edinburgh;  and  as  she,  with 
stately  mien,  was  pushing  the  perambulator  on 
the  pathway,  a  young  man,  driving  a  light 
spring  cart,  overtook  her  and  pulled  up  and 
hailed  her  with  the  inquiry,  "Well,  Robiny, 
hoo's  a'  wi'  ye  the  day?" 

Robina  stopped  and  pretended  to  be  absorbed 
in  settling  Edmund  in  his  perambulator;  for 
the  moment  the  baby  spied  the  trap,  he  began 
to  wriggle  out  of  the  strap  that  bound  him  in 

72 


Robina 

his  seat,  waving  his  arms  and  shouting,  "Me 
go  'ide  in  caht." 

"I  would  like  a  ride,  too,"  Montagu  remarked 
in  his  usual  deliberate  fashion,  and  he  smiled 
up  at  Sandie  engagingly. 

Sandie  saw  the  little  boy  and  smiled  back 
broadly,  but  he  was  mostly  looking  at  Ro- 
bina. 

"Is  they  wee  things  Piskeys  tae?"  Sandie 
asked,  nodding  his  head  toward  the  children. 

"Na,  na,"  Robina  replied,  shaking  her  head 
emphatically,  "there's  noan  o'  the  wee  leddy's 
flesh  and  blood's  Piskeys,  I'se  warrant.  They'll 
gang  tae  the  kirk  wi'  their  auntie  like  ither 
Christian  folk." 

"What's  a  Piskey?"  asked  Montagu  of  the 
inquiring  mind. 

"I'm  no  very  sure,"  the  girl  said  slowly. 
"It's  a  new-fangled  kin'  o'  kirk — is't  no?"  she 
added,  looking  up  at  Sandie. 

Sandie  grinned  broadly  and  drew  himself  up. 
"I  once  went  into  one  o'  they  kirks  in  Edin- 
bory — "  he  said  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
passed  through  many  strange  adventures,  "on 
a  Sabbath  evening,"  he  continued  hastily,  as 

73 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Robina    looked    disapproving.    "I   gang    no 
place  else  than  oor  ain  kirk  in  the  mornin'." 

"And  what  like  was  it?"  asked  Robina, 
somewhat  reassured  by  this  assertion  of  ortho- 
doxy. 

"Dod'  an'  it's  more  than  I  can  say.  Ye  was 
aye  hoppin'  up  an'  sittin'  doon,  wi'  a  wee  thing 
singin'  here  an'  a  wee  bit  prayin'  there,  an'  a 
wee  sma'  readin'.  Ma  certy!  there  was  sae 
monny  preeleeminaries  'at  I  never  thocht  we'd 
reach  the  sairmon.  An'  when  we  did  it  was 
just  as  scampit  as  a'  the  rest.  An'  what  wi' 
human  hymns  an  men  i'  their  sarks  jumpin'  up 
here  an'  there,  it  was  mair  like  play-actin'  than 
a  kirk.  Nae  mair  Piskeys  for  me,  I  can  tell  ye ! " 

"But  what  is  a  Piskey?"  Montagu  again  de- 
manded. 

"The  auld  gentleman  wha'  lives  wi'  us  is  a 
Piskey,  so  I've  heard,"  Robina  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  Sandie  remarked 
meaningly,  and  tapped  his  forehead. 

"Me  go  jive  in  caht!"  Edmund  exclaimed  for 
about  the  thirtieth  time,  this  time  with  an 
(Ominous  w&njing  of  tears  in  his  voice. 

74 


Robina 

Sandie  looked  up  the  road  and  down  the  road. 
There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight. 

"Wull  I  gie  them  a  wee  bit  hurrl?"  he  asked 
Robina. 

"The  wee  stoot  yen  couldna'  sit  wi'oot  some 
person  to  hold  him,"  Robina  said  irresolutely, 
"an7 1  daurna'  let  them  oot  o'  my  sight.  Mine's 
is  a  poseetion  o'  great  responsibeelity."  And 
once  more  she  lifted  the  struggling  Edmund 
back  into  his  seat,  from  which  he  instantly 
wriggled  so  that  he  was  hung  up  under  the  arms 
by  the  strap. 

"Pit  the  pram  inside  yon  gate/'  suggested 
the  ready  Sandie,  "and  come  tae.  No  harm'll 
happen  it,  an'  I'll  gie  ye  a  bit  hurrl  doon  the 
rod." 

"Me  go  jive  in  caht!"  Edmund  shouted  joy- 
fully, and  held  out  his  arms  to  Sandie.  Ed- 
mund looked  upon  mankind  in  general  as  a 
means  specially  provided  for  his  quick  transit 
from  place  to  place.  "Uppie!  Uppie!"  the 
baby  cried  impatiently. 

"Let  the  bairn  have  his  hurrl,"  pleaded 
Sandie. 

Montagu  as  yet  found  it  somewhat  difficult  to 
75 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

follow  the  Scots  tongue,  but  he  realised  that 
Sandie  was  inviting  them  to  go  for  a  drive,  and 
forthwith  declared  his  own  intention  of  accept- 
ing the  invitation  without  Robina  if  she  de- 
clined to  avail  herself  of  it. 

Finally  the  perambulator  was  put  inside  a 
field,  well  out  of  sight.  The  two  small  boys 
were  lifted  into  the  cart,  where  Robina,  with 
much  display  of  white-stockinged  substantial 
ankles,  followed  them.  Away  went  the  butch- 
er's cart  with  four  "precious  souls  and  all  agog" 
seated  abreast  upon  the  wooden  seat.  Robina 
firmly  clutched  the  "wee  stoot  yen"  who  chat- 
tered incessantly,  giving  the  loudest  expression 
to  his  satisfaction. 

They  had  gone  about  half  a  mile  along  the 
Edinburgh  road  when  a  gray  bobtailed  sheep- 
dog was  seen  trotting  along  towards  them,  fol- 
lowed by  a  small  pony  tub  driven  by  an  old 
lady. 

"Megsty  me!"  Robina  exclaimed  in  great 
consternation,  "if  yon's  no  the  wee  leddy  her- 
seP,  and  I  thocht  she  was  up  at  the  hoose.  Turn 
man,  turn!  and  get  back  afore  she  comes." 

Sandie  tried  to  turn,  but  "Moggie,"  the 
76 


Robina 

butcher's  mare,  knew  that  she  was  on  the 
homeward  way  and  had  no  wish  to  defer  her 
arrival.  Moggie  was  fresh  and  frisky  and  very 
obstinate,  and  the  more  Sandie  tried  to  turn 
her  the  more  did  she  back  into  the  side  of  the 
road,  finally  starting  to  rear  and  plunge,  with 
an  occasional  rattle  of  hoofs  on  the  splash- 
board. 

Robina  screamed  with  terror,  and  had  it  not 
been  that  the  four  on  the  seat  were  a  pretty 
tight  fit,  the  little  boys  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  thrown  out. 

Miss  Esperance  was  jogging  slowly  home- 
ward in  her  little  pony  tub  with  only  a  village 
boy  in  attendance.  She  generally  picked  up 
some  stray  urchin  as  she  drove  through  Burn- 
head  to  hold  the  pony  while  she  paid  visits  or 
did  her  shopping.  As  she  drew  nearer  she  per- 
ceived Moggie's  antics,  and  pulled  up. 

"That  seems  a  very  restive  horse,"  she  re- 
marked anxiously.  "I  hope  the  young  man  is 
able  to  manage  it,  for  I  see  he  has  children  in  the 
cart.  It  would  be  terrible  to  have  a  collision. 
I  think,  Davie,  you  had  better  get  out  and  hold 
Jock's  head — and  I,"  added  the  intrepid  little 

77 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

lady,  "will  go  and  speak  to  that  horse  and  see 
if  I  can  catch  hold  of  its  head." 

Davie  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "It's  the 
flesher's  mare,  Moggie,"  he  murmured  shyly, 
"an'  she's  awfu'  flechty.  Tak  heed,  mem,  that 
she  does  na  fell  ye." 

Miss  Esperance  carefully  descended  from  her 
little  trap  and  walked  towards  the  mare  who 
was  getting  a  little  tired  of  fighting  with  Sandie, 
although  she  had  no  intention  of  giving  in. 
Sandie  had  a  firm  hand,  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
beat  his  steed  while  Robina  and  the  children 
were  in  the  cart.  He  sawed  at  Moggie's  mouth 
and  roared  directions  at  her,  and  was  so  busily 
engaged  in  trying  to  get  her  round  that  he  did 
not  see  the  little  old  lady  till  she  was  close  upon 
him,  then  he  nearly  dropped  his  reins  in  his 
consternation,  and  was  stricken  absolutely 
dumb. 

This  was  just  what  Miss  Esperance  wanted. 
All  her  life  she  had  been  used  to  horses,  and  she 
stepped  up  to  the  sweating,  trembling,  plunging 
mare,  laid  a  small,  firm  hand  fearlessly  upon  her 
bridle,  and  spoke  so  soothingly  and  gently  that 
Moggie  ceased  to  plunge  and  in  a  few  minutes 

78 


Robina 

was  standing  quiet,  though  trembling,  with  the 
cart  still  blocking  the  road. 

"Which  way  do  you  want  her  to  go  and  I'll 
turn  her  for  you,"  she  called  to  Sandie. 

"He  wants  to  go  home,  Aunt  Espa'nce,  but 
we  don't.  We'd  much  rather  go  on.  D'you 
mind  if  we  go  on  for  a  little  more  drive?" 

And  the  amazed  Miss  Esperance  looked  up 
to  perceive  her  great-nephews  and  Robina 
perched  up  in  Sandie's  cart. 

Sandie  was  crimson  and  confused:  Robina, 
pale  and  tearful:  the  little  boys  bright-eyed 
and  rosy  with  excitement. 

"Robina!"  Miss  Esperance  ejaculated,  in 
deepest  displeasure.  "What  are  you  doing 
there  with  the  children?  Come  down  at  once 
while  the  horse  is  quiet." 

Hastily  and  ungracefully  Robina  scrambled 
out  of  the  cart  and  the  little  boys  were  handed 
down  by  Sandie,  both  deeply  disappointed  that 
their  "hurrl"  had  come  to  this  untimely  end. 
Edmund  was  not  one  to  conceal  his  feelings  at 
any  time,  and  he  forthwith  began  to  roar  so 
lustily  that  further  discussion  was  impossible, 
especially  as  Mause  considered  it  incumbent 

79 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

upon  her  to  bark  loudly  in  joy  at  this  unex- 
pected reunion. 

Miss  Esperance  packed  all  three  into  her  pony 
tub,  dismissing  Davie  to  walk  home  and  bring 
the  perambulator. 

Moggie  was  the  only  one  who  scored,  for  she 
was  driven  off  without  delay  in  the  direction 
she  had  all  along  wanted  to  go,  and  she  went 
like  the  wind. 

"What,"  asked  Montagu  of  his  aunt  some 
days  later,  "is  a  Piskey?" 

Miss  Esperance  drew  her  delicate  eyebrows 
together.  "Where  have  you  heard  the  word?" 
she  inquired  in  her  turn. 

"Robina  said  Mr.  Wycherly's  a  Piskey,  and 
I  want  to  know  what  it  is." 

"Robina,  "said  Miss  Esperance,"  is  rather  apt 
to  talk  about  things  she  does  not  understand. 
'Piskey/  my  dear  Montagu,  is  a  vulgar  way  of 
saying  Episcopalian,  and  the  English  form  of 
worship  is  called  by  that  name  in  Scotland.  I 
beg  that  you  will  not  let  me  hear  the  word, 
'  Piskey,'  again." 

"I  think  it's  rather  a  nice  little  word,"  Mon- 
80 


Robina 

tagu  retorted;  "short  and  cheerful-sounding. 
I  suppose  we're  Presbeys?" 

"Abbreviations,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  "are 
nearly  always  foolish  and  often  in  bad  taste. 
I  have  never  heard  of  a  Presbey  in  my 
life." 

"Piskey  and  Presbey  were  two  pretty  men," 
Montagu  murmured  dreamily,  with  a  hazy 
recollection  of  some  nursery  rhyme,  "though 
I  think  Piskey's  far  prettier  than  Presbey,  just 
like  Mr.  Wycherly's  prettier  than  Mr.  Gloag." 

"That  will  do,  Montagu." 

"D'you  love  Sandie,  Aunt  Esp'ance?"  Mon- 
tagu asked  with  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"Certainly  not,"  Miss  Esperance  answered 
hastily,  "though  I  believe  him  to  be  a  well- 
doing young  man  on  the  whole." 

"I  love  him,"  said  Montagu,  "but  we  don't 
see  him  very  often  now.  Robina's  taken  the 
huff  at  him — he  told  me  so.  It's  a  pity  isn't 
it?" 

"The  less  Robina  sees  of  Sandie,  the  more 
likely  is  she  to  attend  to  her  duties,"  Miss 
Esperance  remarked  austerely.  Then  suddenly, 
her  whole  face  beaming,  she  added  softly,  as 

81 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

though  to  herself,  "The  lassie's  full  young  for 
that  sort  of  thing  yet  awhile." 

If  Robina  had  escaped  lightly  when  Edmund 
was  lost,  Nemesis  was  by  no  means  leaden- 
footed  as  regarded  her  latest  escapade.  She 
very  nearly  lost  her  situation,  and  only  by  the 
combined  and  reiterated  entreaties  of  herself 
and  her  mother  was  Miss  Esperance  prevailed 
upon  to  give  the  girl  another  trial.  Therefore 
did  Robina,  with  the  unreason  of  her  sex,  lay 
the  whole  blame  upon  Sandie;  and  considered 
that  he,  and  he  alone,  was  responsible  for  the 
mistrustful  attitude  of  the  authorities  with 
regard  to  her.  She  declined  to  speak  to  him 
or  even  to  look  at  him  for  a  whole  fortnight. 
Morning  and  evening  she  passed  him  by,  till 
at  last  he  threatened  that  if  she  remained  so 
obdurate  he  would  forsake  the  church  of  his 
fathers  and  become  a  Piskey.  Then,  and  only 
then,  did  Robina  relent.  "I  couldna  hae  that 
on  my  conscience,"  she  reflected.  But  all  the 
same,  although  she  condescended  to  speak  to 
Sandie  " whiles,"  he  found  that  he  had  to  do 
most  of  his  wooing  all  over  again;  and  Robina 
82 


Robina 

would  smile  to  herself  from  time  to  time  as  she 
reflected  that  "it's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody 
good." 

Robina  was  one  of  those  who  believed  that 
what  a  man  wants  he  will  ask  for  over  and  over 
again;  and  that  the  harder  a  thing  is  to  obtain 
the  more  it  is  valued.  So  she  was  very  nig- 
gardly in  the  matter  of  her  favours  to  Sandie, 
and  her  work  prospered  in  consequence. 


83 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  MR.  WYCHERLY 

Ay;  you  would  gaze  on  a  wind-shaken  tree 
By  the  hour,  nor  count  time  lost. 

PARACELSUS. 

MONTAGU'S  education  was  taken  in  hand 
at  once,  and  a  very  curious  course  of 
instruction  it  proved  to  be.  Mr.  Wycherly 
taught  him  to  read,  and  to  read  Latin  at  the 
same  time  that  he  learned  to  read  English. 
He  also,  which  Montagu  very  much  preferred, 
told  him  endless  stories,  historical  and  myth- 
ological, and  in  illustration  thereof  gave  him 
for  himself  his  own  two  precious  oblong  folios 
of  Flaxman's  " Compositions,"  on  the  very 
first  birthday  the  little  boy  spent  with  Miss 
Esperance.  These  books  were  for  Montagu  the 
only  nursery  picture  books  he  knew,  and  Ulysses 
and  Hector  were  as  real  and  familiar  to  him  as 
"Jack  the  Giant  Killer"  or  "Bluebeard"  to  the 
ordinary  child.  He  treasured  them  and  treated 

84 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

them  always  with  the  greatest  care  and  tender- 
ness. They  were  the  one  possession  he  de- 
clined to  share  with  Edmund,  who  was  care- 
less, and  tore  things,  to  whom  wide  margins 
and  spacious  pages  made  no  appeal.  He  pored 
over  the  pictures  for  hours  at  a  time,  arriving 
at  a  very  clear  conception  of  the  beauty  of  pure 
line. 

When  the  children  first  came  Mr.  Wycherly 
might  have  been  seen,  during  all  such  time  as 
those  energetic  young  people  left  to  him,  im- 
mersed in  the  study  of  a  serviceable  sheepskin 
volume,  the  Wrexham  edition  of  Roger  As- 
cham's  "  Schoolmaster,"  making  notes  on  the 
margins  of  the  same,  and  marking  such  passages 
as  seemed  to  him  especially  applicable  to  the 
matter  under  consideration. 

Years  after  the  owner's  death  Montagu  found 
and  read  the  wise  old  book,  and  realised  how 
humbly  and  patiently  Mr.  Wycherly  had  set 
himself  to  follow  out  whatever  he  considered 
most  valuable  in  the  teaching  of  one  whose 
mental  attitude  toward  youth  was  certainly 
centuries  in  advance  of  his  age.  On  the  fly- 
leaf he  had  written  in  his  small,  delicate  hand- 
85 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

writing:  "In  all  my  life,  if  I  have  done  but 
little  harm,  I  have  done  no  good  or  useful  thing. 
God  help  me  that  I  may  do  this  thing  well," 
and  Montagu,  with  an  almost  rapturous  remem- 
brance of  his  teaching,  could  testify  that  the 
prayer  had  not  been  made  in  vain. 

It  was  no  doubt  a  good  thing  for  Montagu  that 
his  tutor  had  such  a  common-sense  standard 
of  teaching  always  before  him,  for  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  own  inclination  was  apt  to  draw  him 
away  from  the  grind  of  grammar  to  discourse 
with  enthusiasm  on  the  beauties  and  solem- 
nities of  the  authors  he  so  loved.  Montagu 
was  quick  and  receptive,  with  considerable 
power  of  concentration,  and  because  he  loved 
his  teacher,  he  speedily  grew  to  love  the  subjects 
that  he  taught,  so  that  he  might  truly  have 
said  with  Lady  Jane  Grey:  "My  book  hath 
been  so  much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  daily 
to  me  more  pleasure  and  more,  that  in  respect 
of  it  all  other  pleasures,  in  very  deed,  be  but 
trifles  and  troubles  unto  me." 

Mr.  Wycherly's  sitting-room  was  much  the 
largest  in  the  little  house.  It  was  on  the  first 
floor  and  of  a  cheerful  aspect,  having  two  win- 
86 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

dows  facing  east  and  south,  respectively.  Here, 
for  Montagu's  own  special  use,  were  placed  a 
little  square  oak  table  with  stout,  stumpy  legs, 
of  a  solid  steadiness  that  even  the  most  fidgety 
of  little  boys  could  not  shake,  and  a  three- 
legged  stool  that  had  once  served  Elsa  as  a 
milking-stool.  These  were  set  sideways  in  the 
window  looking  on  to  the  kitchen  garden,  as 
being  a  view  less  likely  to  distract  the  learner 
than  that  of  the  other,  from  which  one  beheld 
the  front  garden  with  the  green  railings,  and 
the  village  street  with  all  its  possible  excite- 
ments. The  little  table  possessed  a  drawer 
with  bright  handles,  and  in  this  drawer  Mon- 
tagu kept  his  own  exercise  books,  his  pen  with 
the  pebble  handle  that  Elsa  had  given  him,  his 
box  of  pencils,  and  every  scrap  of  paper  suitable 
for  drawing  on,  that  he  could  collect — generally 
half  sheets  torn  off  letters  by  the  careful  hand 
of  Miss  Esperance.  The  table  itself,  in  imita- 
tion of  Mr.  Wycherly's,  was  piled  with  books, 
but  they  were  in  orderly  piles,  and  never  set 
open,  one  on  the  top  of  the  other,  as  was  the 
older  scholar's  habit. 

There  was  another  reason  why  Mr.  Wycherly 
87 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

chose  that  window  for  Montagu:  the  morning 
sun  shone  straight  through  it,  and  the  scholar, 
always  something  of  a  stranger  in  this  chill 
north,  craved  all  the  sunshine  he  could  get  for 
the  child.  He  liked  to  lean  back  in  his  own 
deep-seated  revolving  chair,  set  by  the  big 
knee-hole  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
watch  the  little  stooping  figure  in  the  patch  of 
sunshine  in  the  window,  laboriously  tracing  the 
Greek  characters  so  neatly  and  carefully.  A 
large-eyed  thin-faced  boy  was  Montagu,  some- 
what sallow,  with  the  round  shoulders  got  dur- 
ing those  early  studies  which  he  never  lost  in 
later  life. 

It  was  not  only  during  lessons  that  Montagu 
sat  at  his  little  table:  long  hours  did  he  spend 
there  on  wet  days  while  the  wind  howled  round 
the  little  house  like  a  hungry  wolf,  and  the  rain 
battered  on  the  panes  like  shot — making  draw- 
ings for  himself  of  the  battle  in  the  "  great  har- 
bour of  Syracuse,"  which  he  had  read  about  in 
Thomas  Hobbes's  translation.  For  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  shelves  abounded  in  translations  as 
well  as  in  the  "original  texts,"  and  although, 
like  most  translators,  he  disagreed  with  all 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

accepted  renderings,  yet  he  encouraged  Mon- 
tagu's use  of  them,  perhaps  that  he,  himself, 
might  the  better,  by-and-by,  point  out  where 
he  considered  that  they  failed. 

These  drawings  were  afterwards  bestowed 
upon  Edmund,  who  would  listen  to  Montagu's 
classic  stories  when  they  dealt  with  battles  or 
ships,  but  who  otherwise  infinitely  preferred 
Elsa's  more  homely  legends  regarding  the  doings 
of  "Cockie  Lockie  and  Henny  Penny." 

But  there  was  more  than  the  garden  to  be 
seen  from  Montagu's  window:  far  away,  sharp 
against  the  sky  line,  lay  the  lion  back  of  Ar- 
thur's Seat,  and  whenever  Montagu  raised  his 
eyes  from  his  work  to  look  out,  it  was  there  that 
they  rested.  And  inasmuch  as  at  that  time 
the  Odyssey  and  its  hero  rilled  all  his  thoughts, 
the  great  gaunt  hill  became  for  him  actually 
that  Ithaca  long  sought  and  longed  for  by  the 
many-counselled  one:  till  every  sight  of  it 
would  thrill  him  with  a  sense  of  personal  pos- 
session and  delighted  recognition. 

Sometimes  Montagu,  looking  back  into  the 
room,  would  find  his  old  friend  watching  him, 
and  the  little  boy  would  nod  gaily  without 
89 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

speaking,  smiling  the  while  the  confident,  com- 
rade smile  of  childhood,  and  thinking  that, 
failing  Achilles,  he  would  like  to  look  like  Mr. 
Wycherly  when  he  was  old. 

There  is  always  something  pleasantly  sur- 
prising in  the  conjunction  of  white  hair  and 
very  dark  eyes  and  eyebrows,  and  in  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  case  the  expression  of  the  dark  eyes 
was  extremely  gentle,  the  features  sharply  cut 
and  refined,  the  whole  face  of  that  clean-shaven, 
regular,  aristocratic  type,  which  the  Reverend 
Peter  Gloag — half  in  admiration,  half  in  deri- 
sion— described  as  so  "  intensely  Oxfordish." 

"He  has  got  such  a  tidy  face,"  Montagu  said 
to  his  aunt  one  day. 

"My  dear,  Mr.  Wycherly  is  always  considered 
a  man  of  great  personal  attractions,"  she  re- 
plied, rather  shocked  at  his  choice  of  an  ad- 
jective. 

"Yes,  aunt,  dear,  I  know,  but  it's  a  tidy 
sort  of  handsomeness;  not  a  bit  like  Noah  and 
Jacob  and  those  hairy  prophets  in  the  parlour." 

The  walls  of  his  aunt's  sitting-room  were 
adorned  by  many  engravings  illustrative  of  the 
Scriptures,  and  Montagu,  fresh  from  the  study 
90 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

of  his  beloved  Flaxman,  would  compare  these 
bearded  Hebrew  prophets,  so  hampered  by 
heavy  draperies,  with  his  airily  attired  and 
clean-limbed  Greeks,  always  to  the  advantage 
of  the  latter.  Yet  he  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge to  himself  that  his  adored  Mr.  Wycherly 
resembled  them  equally  little  both  in  appear- 
ance and  manner  of  life:  for  nothing  could 
savour  less  of  the  adventurous  than  his  exist- 
ence. So  Montagu  "put  the  question  by"  as 
one  to  be  answered  in  that  wonderful,  grown- 
up time  that  children  think  will  solve  so  many 
riddles.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  immensely  happy 
in  this  new  work  and  approached  his  task  with 
a  certain  tender  reverence,  rare  among  teachers, 
for  he  agreed  with  wise  old  Roger  Ascham  in 
thinking  that  "the  pure,  clean  wit  of  a  sweet, 
young  babe  is  like  the  newest  wax,  most  able 
to  receive  the  best  and  fairest  printing,  and  like 
a  new  bright  silver  dish  never  occupied  to  re- 
ceive and  keep  clean  any  good  thing  that  is 
put  in  it." 

One  morning  in  early  October,  Montagu  was 
sitting,  as  usual,  at  his  little  table  copying  the 
91 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Greek  alphabet,  while  Mr.  Wycherly  sat  watch- 
ing him  with  pleased,  dreamy  eyes.  As  the 
little  boy  completed  his  task  he  raised  his  head 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  happened  to  look 
down  into  the  garden. 

"Do  you  think?"  he  suddenly  asked  Mr. 
Wycherly,  "I  might  go  out  and  help  Aunt 
Esperance  dig  the  potatoes?  The  ground  seems 
so  heavy  this  morning." 

Mr.  Wycherly  rose  hastily,  crossed  over  to 
Montagu's  window  and  looked  out. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  and  fled  from 
the  room. 

Much  astonished  at  this  outburst  from  his 
usually  serene  tutor,  Montagu  tore  downstairs 
after  him. 

What  Mr.  Wycherly  had  seen  to  cause  him 
such  consternation  was  what  he  might  have 
seen  any  time  during  the  last  fifteen  years— 
namely,  the  tiny,  stooping  figure  of  Miss  Esper- 
ance digging  the  potatoes  for  the  day's  dinner. 
But  if  it  ever  happened  that  he  did  look  out  he 
had  never  chanced  to  look  down  into  the 
homely  garden  below,  or  if  he  had  his  eyes  were 
holden,  and  he  was  wrapped  in  his  dreams.  So 
92 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

that  he  beheld  only  the  things  of  the  spirit,  nor 
did  he  know  how  often  the  palms  of  those 
little  hands,  so  ready  to  help  others,  were  hard 
and  blistered  by  their  labours. 

Since  the  days  when  he  ran  shouting  along 
the  towing  path  at  Oxford  Mr.  Wycherly  had 
never  run  as  he  ran  that  morning  to  the  potato 
patch  at  Remote.  Montagu  was  hard  put  to  it 
to  catch  him,  but  just  managed  it,  and  they 
arrived  together  before  the  astonished  eyes  of 
Miss  Esperance,  who  saw  them  coming  in  such 
hot  haste,  and  rested  on  her  spade  in  fear  and 
trembling  as  to  what  could  have  happened. 

When  Mr.  Wycherly  did  reach  her  he  could 
not  speak,  so  breathless  was  he :  but  he  looked 
beseechingly  at  her  and  gently  took  the  spade 
out  of  her  hands. 

"Why?"  he  gasped,  "Why?"  His  face 
worked  strangely  and  he  could  say  nothing 
more.  Montagu  stood  watching  him  with  sol- 
emn, puzzled  eyes. 

But  Miss  Esperance  understood.  "You  have 
come  to  help  me,"  she  said  gently,  "that  is  very 
kind  of  you.  Montagu !  away  and  get  your  wee 
spade  and  dig  too." 

93 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

The  little  boy  needed  no  second  bidding,  and 
flew  to  the  tool-house.  Mr.  Wycherly  hadn't 
the  faintest  notion  how  to  dig  potatoes.  He 
had  never  held  a  spade  in  his  hands  before,  and 
held  this  much  as  a  nervous  person  unaccus- 
tomed to  firearms  might  hold  a  loaded  gun. 
He  looked  helplessly  at  Miss  Esperance,  and 
still  the  lines  were  deep  about  his  mouth  and 
his  eyes  full  of  that  new,  dumb  pain. 

"Watch  Montagu!"  she  whispered  reassur- 
ingly, "he's  a  famous  digger." 

Between  them  they  dug  quite  a  lot  of  pota- 
toes, and  Mr.  Wycherly,  himself,  carried  the 
heavy  basket  to  Elsa  at  the  back  door.  She 
took  it  from  him  without  comment  of  any 
kind,  but  when  he  had  gone  round  through  the 
garden  to  get  into  the  house  by  the  front,  she 
looked  into  the  basket,  exclaiming,  "Now  what 
put  sic'  a  whigmalerie  as  this  in  his  head?" 
And  it  seemed  as  if  the  potatoes  must  have 
thrown  some  light  upon  the  question,  for  in 
another  minute  she  said  softly,  "  Yon's  no  a  bad 
buddy." 

When  Montagu  went  back  to  his  lessons  he 
found  his  tutor,  with  earthy  hands  clasped  be- 
94 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 
hind  him,  restlessly  pacing  up  and  down  his 


room. 

a 


I  think  you've  done  enough  this  morning," 
said  Mr.  Wycherly.  "You'd  better  go  out  and 
play  while  it  is  so  fine  and  nice." 

"It's  not  twelve  o'clock  yet,"  Montagu  ob- 
jected, "and  I  generally  do  lessons  till  twelve." 

"We  shall  have  plenty  of  wet  days  by-and- 
by,"  Mr.  Wycherly  answered.  "Go  out  now, 
and  make  the  most  of  it  while  it  is  fine." 

"But  Robina  and  Edmund's  gone,  and  Aunt 
Esperance  is  busy — won't  you  come?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come."  But  yet  Mr.  Wycherly 
made  no  move  to  get  ready. 

"I've  Washed  my  hands,"  Montagu  remarked 
virtuously. 

Mr.  Wycherly  started,  unclasped  his  hands 
and  held  them  out  in  front  of  him.  "I  fear," 
he  said  sadly,  "that  nothing  will  wash  mine." 
A  remark  which  puzzled  Montagu  extremely, 
for  in  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Wycherly  returned 
from  his  bedroom  with  perfectly  clean  hands. 

It  was  a  very  silent  walk  at  first,  and  what 
conversation  there  was  Montagu  made.  At 
last  he  grew  rather  tired  of  this  one-sided  in- 
95 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

tercourse  and  gave  his  companion's  hand  a  tug 
as  he  demanded:  "Are  you  asleep,  that  you 
don't  never  answer?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  started.  "No,  my  dear  son," 
he  said  very  gently;  "I  think  that  I  am  just 
beginning  to  be  awake." 

"Will  you  talk  to  me  then,  like  you  generally 
do,  and  tell  me  things?  Shall  we  go  on  about 
Jason?  I  do  love  stories  where  people  do 
things." 

Mr.  Wycherly  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  looked  down  into  the  little  eager  face 
uplifted  to  his.  "You  are  right,  Montagu," 
he  said  very  gravely;  "it  is  of  little  use  to  think 
things  if  you  don't  do  them."  And  then  it 
seemed  as  though  Mr.  Wycherly  gave  himself 
a  mental  shake,  for  he  devoted  his  whole  atten- 
tion to  Montagu  for  the  rest  of  their  walk. 

Mr.  Wycherly's  early  dinner  was  served  in 
his  own  room,  but  he  always  supped  down- 
stairs with  Miss  Esperance  at  seven  o'clock. 
He  was  the  most  unpunctual  of  mortals,  and 
when  he  first  came,  infuriated  Elsa  by  some- 
times forgetting  to  eat  any  lunch  at  all.  But 
when  he  discovered  that  these  lapses  really  dis- 

96 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

tressed  Miss  Esperance,  he  schooled  himself  to 
keep  as  nearly  as  possible  to  the  appointed 
hours.  He  was  never  late  for  supper,  for  that 
would  have  been  discourteous  to  Miss  Esper- 
ance, and  he  was  incapable  of  discourtesy;  but 
he  did  allow  himself  a  certain  amount  of  laxity 
with  regard  to  lunch.  As  for  breakfast — ever 
since  the  coming  of  the  children  he  had  been  a 
model  of  punctuality,  for  they  woke  him  up  so 
uncommonly  early. 

When  he  entered  his  room  after  the  walk 
with  Montagu,  he  found  his  lunch  all  ready  set 
on  the  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
This  table  was  sacred  to  meals,  and  he  was  not 
permitted  to  pile  it  with  books  and  papers. 
Hence,  he  was  wont  to  regard  its  oaken  empti- 
ness between  whiles  with  a  wistful  envy.  It 
was  so  much  good  space  wasted.  His  lunch 
was  always  very  nicely  laid,  and  to-day  there 
was  cold  beef,  thin  dainty  slices  adorned  with 
parsley  by  Elsa's  careful  hand,  and  beside  the 
beef  stood  a  covered  vegetable  dish.  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly sat  down  at  the  table,  poured  out  a 
glass  of  ale  from  the  little  Toby  jug  set  at  his 
right  hand  and  mechanically  lifted  the  cover  of 

97 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  dish.  Potatoes  were  in  that  dish,  and  at 
the  sight  of  them  he  rose  hastily  from  the  table. 
He  went  over  to  his  big,  knee-hole  -desk,  and 
sitting  down  in  front  of  it  said  aloud:  "And 
all  these  years  she  has  been  digging  potatoes  for 
me!" 

Like  a  tired  schoolboy  he  leaned  forward,  his 
arms  upon  his  desk,  laid  his  head  down  on 
them,  and  the  room  was  very  still. 

When  Elsa  went  in  to  take  away  the  dishes, 
he  had  gone  out :  but  his  lunch  was  untouched. 
She  shook  her  head  ominously,  and  went  and 
turned  down  his  bed,  though  it  was  only  early 
afternoon. 

Mr.  Wycherly  walked  and  walked  till  he  was 
quite  worn  out.  He  got  back  to  the  house 
about  four  o'clock,  crawled  up  to  his  room,  and 
sank  quite  exhausted  into  his  big  chair  by  the 
window.  All  afternoon  Elsa  had  been  watch- 
ing for  him,  and  three  minutes  after  his  return 
she  followed  him  upstairs  bearing  a  little  tray 
on  which  were  set  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of 
most  tempting-looking  scones.  She  didn't  even 
knock  at  his  door,  but  went  straight  in,  pushed 
the  round  table  up  to  his  elbow  and  laid  the 
98 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

little  tray  upon  it.  She  took  up  her  stand  at 
the  window  with  her  back  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  re- 
marking fiercely:  "From  this  place  I'll  not 
stir  till  you've  taken  that  tea." 

She  did  not  even  add  the  usual  tardy  "sir," 
and  Mr.  Wycherly  was  so  startled  that  he  never 
noticed  the  omission.  He  drank  the  tea,  and 
ate  two  scones,  and  all  the  time  Elsa  stood  with 
her  back  to  him  looking  out  of  the  window. 

Presently  he  touched  her  on  the  arm.  "I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Elsa,"  he  said. 
"I  think  I  must  have  forgotten  to  eat  as  much 
lunch  as  usual,  I  was  so  extremely  tired,  but  I 
feel  much  refreshed  now." 

Elsa  grunted  something  quite  inaudible,  took 
the  tray  off  the  table,  and,  still  with  averted 
head,  stumped  out  of  the  room. 

But  the  fates  had  not  done  with  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly that  day.  As  he  and  Miss  Esperance 
sat  down  to  supper,  Montagu,  who  for  some 
reason  was  rather  later  than  usual  in  going  to 
bed,  came  in  to  say  good  night  to  them.  He 
first  kissed  his  aunt,  who  sat  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  then  went  to  kiss  Mr.  Wycherly  who  sat 
at  the  other.  Having  said  good  night,  of  course 

99 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

he  lingered,  leant  confidingly  against  his  tutor, 
and  in  the  universal  fashion  of  children  who 
would  fain  put  off  the  evil  hour  of  bed,  remarked 
detachedly:  "You've  got  chops.  Aunt  Esper- 
ance has  only  got  an  egg.  Don't  you  like  chops, 
Aunt  Esperance?  I  do,  much  better  than  eggs." 

Mr.  Wycherly  dropped  back  in  his  chair, 
looking  painfully  distressed.  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  dreadful  pause,  but  the  beautiful 
breeding  of  Miss  Esperance  stood  her  in  good 
stead  even  then. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  exclaimed,  as  though  a 
sudden  thought  had  struck  her,  "I  feel  un- 
usually hungry  to-night.  I  think  I  will  defy 
my  doctor  for  once,  and  take  a  chop  after  all, 
Mr.  Wycherly." 

And  Miss  Esperance  handed  up  her  little 
plate  for  the  chop  which  Mr.  Wycherly  joy- 
fully placed  upon  it.  But  now  came  another 
difficulty.  Miss  Esperance,  who  had  eaten  a 
boiled  egg  at  this  hour  nearly  every  night  for 
some  twenty  years,  had  no  fork. 

"Montagu,  my  son,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
"run  and  ask  Elsa  for  a  fork  for  me." 

No  man  ever  existed  who  cared  less  about 
100 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

eating  than  Mr.  Wycherly.  Whatsoever  was 
set  before  him,  that  he  ate  meekly  and  without 
comment — if  he  remembered.  He  always  of- 
fered to  help  Miss  Esperance  from  whatever 
dish  was  set  before  him  at  supper,  and  she  as 
invariably  refused  it.  It  would  have  seemed  to 
him  an  unwarrantable  piece  of  interference  even 
so  indirectly  to  criticise  her  housekeeping  as  to 
suggest  what  she  should  eat.  But  to-day  there 
had  occurred  something  which  had  entirely 
shaken  him  out  of  his  usual  patient  acquiescence 
in  existing  conditions:  so  that,  when  Montagu 
pointed  out  that  his  fare  was  so  much  better 
than  that  of  Miss  Esperance,  he  was  seized  by 
a  new  anguish  of  self-reproach.  Had  he,  all 
these  years,  been  living  luxuriously? — that  is 
how  poor  Mr.  Wycherly  put  it  to  himself — 
while  she,  who  with  her  frail  little  hands  had 
pulled  him  forcibly  back  from  the  abyss  into 
which  he  was  so  surely  slipping,  had  she  been 
living  sparely,  and  he  never  even  noticed 
whether  she  had  enough  to  eat?  In  his  misery 
he  was  ready  to  accuse  himself  of  having  starved 
Miss  Esperance  that  he  might  go  full-fed  himself. 
It  was  rather  a  silent  meal.  Miss  Esperance 
101 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

did  her  best  to  start  topics  of  interest,  but  his 
response,  though  never  lacking  in  urbane  at- 
tention, was  somewhat  half-hearted  and  de- 
pressed. 

When  he  had  gone  upstairs  to  his  own  room, 
Miss  Esperance  waited  with  the  little  bell,  which 
summoned  Elsa,  still  in  her  hand  till  that  good 
woman  appeared,  when  she  asked  anxiously: 
"Elsa,  do  you  know  if  anything  has  occurred 
to  upset  Mr.  Wycherly?  He  is  not  looking  at 
all  well  to-night." 

Elsa  shook  her  head.  "I  dinna  ken,  mem, 
what  it'll  be,  but  he  never  touched  his  denner, 
and  when  he  came  back  this  afternoon  he  looked 
like  he'd  been  greetin'  and  greetin'  sair." 

Elsa  paused;  Miss  Esperance  made  no  an- 
swer, but  stood  still,  looking  at  the  lamp  on 
the  table,  lost  in  thought. 

"It's  no  the  old  thing,"  Elsa  added  suddenly, 
lowering  her  voice. 

Miss  Esperance  put  out  her  hand  as  if  ward- 
ing off  a  blow.  "Of  course  not,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  am  surprised,  Elsa,  that  you 
should  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to  refer,  to — 
that  time — so  long  ago,  so  entirely  passed." 
102 


The  Awakening  of  Mr.  Wycherly 

The  little  lady  seemed  in  some  subtle  fashion 
to  withdraw  herself  to  an  immense  distance 
from  the  homely  serving-woman  who  stood 
fingering  her  apron  and  saying  nothing.  She 
knew  that  she  had  offended  her  mistress,  and 
when  Miss  Esperance  was  offended,  she,  usually 
the  gentlest  and  friendliest  of  women,  became 
quite  unapproachable.  She  left  the  room  with 
her  usual  noiseless  tread,  and  for  a  good  five 
minutes  after  she  had  gone  Elsa  stood  where 
she  was,  still  fingering  her  apron  and  wondering 
what  she  could  do  to  make  amends. 

Mr.  Wycherly  sat  at  his  knee-hole  table  far 
into  the  night.  From  the  recesses  of  a  drawer 
that  had  been  locked  for  years  he  brought  forth 
papers;  long,  legal-looking  papers,  and  set  him- 
self, for  the  first  time  since  he  came  to  live  with 
Miss  Esperance,  to  look  into  his  financial  posi- 
tion. He  made  many  notes  and  his  brow  was 
furrowed  by  care  and  thought,  for  his  brain 
lent  itself  with  difficulty  to  the  understanding 
of  figures.  Still  he  persevered,  and  gradually 
his  expression  became  less  pained  and  per- 
plexed. For  once  he  did  not  leave  his  papers 
103 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

scattered  all  over  the  table.  He  arranged 
them  neatly  in  bundles  and  put  them  back 
again  into  the  drawer  and  locked  it. 

When  he  had  finished  these  unusually  orderly 
arrangements,  he  pulled  up  the  blind  of  Mon- 
tagu's window  and  looked  out  toward  Arthur's 
Seat.  It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  some- 
thing of  the  large  peace  of  that  majestic  hill 
seemed  to  pass  into  his  soul,  for  his  gentle, 
scholarly  face  was  no  longer  troubled,  and  he 
whispered  as  if  in  prayer:  " Thank  God,  I  can 
at  least  do  that  for  her.  Thank  God!" 

The  tender  moonbeams  touched  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  hair,  white  since  he  was  seven  and 
twenty,  to  purest  silver,  and  there  seemed  a 
benediction  in  that  quiet  hour  for  the  little 
house  that  held  so  much  of  innocence  and  sor- 
row and  repentance. 


104 


CHAPTER  VII 

ELS  A  DRIVES   THE   NAIL  HOME 

And  toward  such  a  full  or  complete  life,  a  life  of  various 
yet  select  sensation,  the  most  direct  and  effective  auxiliary 
must  be,  in  a  word,  Insight. 

MARIUS  THE  EPICUREAN. 

WHEN  Elsa  came  to  clear  away  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  breakfast  next  morning  she 
shut  the  door  carefully  behind  her  and  stumped 
— never  had  woman  a  heavier  foot  than  Elsa — 
across  to  his  writing-table,  where  she  stood 
facing  him  in  silence. 

Mr.  Wycherly  wTas,  as  usual,  bent  over  a  book, 
and  the  book  was  Roger  Ascham's  "School- 
master." It  was  his  habit  ever  since  he  had 
begun  to  teach  Montagu  to  read  therein  for  a 
few  minutes  every  morning  that  he  might  start 
the  lessons  for  the  day  in  a  frame  of  mind 
"  fresh  and  serenely  disposed." 

When  Elsa  planted  herself  full  in  his  view 
he  had  just  reached  the  sentence  describing 
the  sixth  virtue  in  a  scholar:  "He  that  is 
105 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

naturally  bold  to  ask  any  question,"  and  was 
smiling  to  himself  in  the  thought  that  both  his 
pupil  and  the  small  Edmund  fulfilled  this  con- 
dition to  the  very  letter,  when  he  looked  up 
and  saw  Elsa. 

"Sir,"  said  Elsa,  "do  ye  not  want  an  account 
of  your  money?" 

"No,  Elsa,"  Mr.  Wycherly  answered,  smiling 
still,  although  a  little  startled  by  the  interrup- 
tion, "not  in  the  least.  I  probably  should  not 
understand  it  if  you  gave  it  to  me.  Do  you 
want  any  more?  Because,  if  so,  I  have  some 
for  you."  And  Mr.  Wycherly  made  as  if  to 
open  one  of  the  drawers  of  his  table. 

"Stop!"  Elsa  exclaimed,  "I've  five  pound 
yet,  but  I'm  fear'd.  I'd  rather  you  had  it 
back." 

"But  why?"  Mr.  Wycherly  asked.  "There 
must  be  many  expenses,  many  extra  expenses 
since  the  children  came " 

"When  the  bairnies  came,"  said  Elsa,  look- 
ing severely  at  Mr.  Wycherly,  "you  gave  me 
three  ten-pound  notes,  and  ever  since  I've  been 
deceiving  the  mistress.  Twenty-five  pounds 
have  I  spent  in  groceries  and  odds  and  ends, 
106 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

and  she  so  surprised — like  that  the  bairns 
didna'  mak'  so  great  a  difference — and  I  just 
daurna  gae  on.  I'm  fear'd.  If  she  was  ever 
to  ken — and  she's  that  gleg  in  the  uptak, 
she'll  ken  somehow,  an'  it's  me  she'll  blame, 
and  no  you." 

Elsa's  voice  broke.  The  favour  of  her  mis- 
tress was  very  precious  to  her,  and  as  yet  she 
could  not  feel  that  Miss  Esperance  had  quite 
forgiven  her  for  her  indiscretion  of  the  night 
before.  Mr.  Wycherly  had  obtained  quite  a 
large  sum  of  money  for  the  valuable  books  he 
sold  when  he  and  Miss  Esperance  went  to  fetch 
the  children,  and  on  their  return  he  had  given 
thirty  pounds  to  Elsa,  bidding  her  get  any 
extras  that  might  be  necessary,  without  troub- 
ling her  mistress.  At  the  time  Elsa  had  taken 
the  money  willingly  enough,  for  she  felt  that  it 
would  be  more  usefully  expended  in  her  hands 
than  if  Mr.  Wycherly  kept  it.  "He'll  just 
waste  it  on  some  haver  of  a  bit  book,"  she  said 
to  herself,  and  salved  her  conscience  with  this 
reflection;  and  it  had,  undoubtedly,  tided  the 
little  household  over  a  difficult  time.  But  now, 
she  felt,  this  cooking  of  the  household  books 
107 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

could  not  go  on.  It  must  come  to  an  end  with 
the  money,  and  her  mistress  would  wonder  why, 
all  at  once,  the  weekly  expenses  had  increased 
so  mightily.  Searching  inquiries  would  be 
made.  Elsa  knew  that  she  could  not  lie  to 
Miss  Esperance,  and  she  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  as  the  money  was  his,  it  would  be  better 
that  Mr.  Wycherly  should  make  the  necessary 
explanation  and  bear  the  blame.  She  would 
be  his  accomplice  in  this  innocent  deception  no 
longer. 

Therefore  did  she  take  from  her  pocket  a 
screw  of  paper  which  she  unfolded,  displaying 
the  five  sovereigns  wrapped  in  it,  and  laid 
them  down  on  Mr.  Wycherly's  desk  in  a  row. 

"I  can  give  an  account  for  every  penny  of 
the  twenty-five  pound,"  said  Elsa,  turning  away 
from  the  table,  "and  you  maun  just  tell  her  the 
truth — sir.  The  tradesman's  books'll  be  gey 
and  big  this  week,"  she  added,  significantly. 

Mr.  Wycherly  leant  back  in  his  chair  and 
gazed  helplessly  at  Elsa,  who  was  now  removing 
his  breakfast  things  with  her  customary  clatter. 
She  would  not  meet  his  eye,  for  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  she  had  "gone  back  on  him"  to  a 
108 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

certain  extent,  disturbed  her,  and  she  was  more 
than  usually  unapproachable  in  consequence. 

She  had  finished  clearing  the  table  and  was 
about  to  depart  with  the  tray  when  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly  spoke:  "Elsa,"  he  said,  "you  had  better 
take  this  money  and  use  it-  as  you  did  the  other. 
You  are  quite  right  that  Miss  Esperance  must 
know.  It  is  an  impertinence  on  our  part  to 
do  anything  without  her  knowledge:  but  I 
hope — I  sincerely  hope  that  in  the  future  Miss 
Esperance  will  permit  me  to  act  as  guardian  to 
her  great-nephews  in  more  than  name;  that 
she  will  give  me  the  right  to  take  my  share — in 
whatever  may  be  necessary.  But  be  reassured 
as  to  this,  Elsa,  I  will  not  allow  you  to  be 
blamed  for  what,  after  all,  was  wholly  my 
fault:  a  grievous  fault  in  taste,  I  confess:  but 
it  was  done  hastily,  and,  to  be  quite  candid,  I 
had  wholly  forgotten  the  circumstance  until  you 
very  properly  reminded  me  of  it." 

Mr.  Wycherly  spoke  earnestly,  and  while  he 
was  talking  Elsa  had  laid  down  the  tray  again 
on  the  centre  table.  She  made  no  answer  to 
this  unusually  long  speech  from  him,  but  stood 
with  her  hard  old  face  set  like  a  flint,  wholly 
109 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

expressionless,  till  she  remarked  suddenly  and 
irrelevantly:  " Could  you  tak'  your  breakfast 
at  eight  o'clock  instead  o'  nine,  sir?" 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Wycherly  replied,  rather 
astonished  at  this  abrupt,  change  of  subject, 
"if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  call  me  rather 
earlier.  Those  little  people  wake  me  in  ex- 
cellent time." 

"  Would  you  let  the  mistress  come  here  to 
her  breakfast  wi'  you?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  rose  to  his  feet.  "Do  you  think 
Miss  Esperance  would  so  far  honour  me,  Elsa?" 

Elsa  and  Mr.  Wycherly  stood  looking  at  one 
another  across  the  room.  Suddenly  she  bent 
her  eyes  upon  the  carpet  and  spoke  in  a  low, 
monotonous  voice. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "it's  like  this.  The  mistress 
never  gets  a  proper  breakfast  for  those  wee 
bairns " 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  Mr.  Wycherly  in- 
terrupted. 

"Now  if  you,  sir"  (it  was  surprising  how 

fluently   the  'sir'  came   to   Elsa  just  then), 

"would  just  say  that  you'd  like  your  breakfast 

a  wee  thing  sooner  in  the  morning  and  would 

110 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

ask  the  mistress,  would  she  no  have  hers  wi' 
you  for  the  company.  Then  me  an'  Robina'll 
see  that  the  wee  boys  has  theirs.  Don't  you 
think,  sir,  you'd  eat  more  yerseF,  if  ye  was  no 
read — readin'  a'  the  time?  If  ye'd  just  tell  the 
mistress  that?  It's  dull-like,  isn't  it,  to  eat  yer 
lane?" 

Elsa  picked  up  her  tray  and  hastened  from 
the  room,  feeling  that  do  as  she  would,  she  and 
Mr.  Wycherly  were  doomed  to  be  fellow-con- 
spirators. 

The  sun  came  out  and  shone  on  the  five 
sovereigns  lying  on  the  writing-table,  and  Mon- 
tagu, at  that  moment  coming  in  to  his  lessons, 
spied  them. 

"What  a  lot  of  money!"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  quite  gaily, 
"that  I  am  going  to  buy  large  pieces  of  happi- 
ness with  it." 

"Can  you  buy  happiness?"  Montagu  asked 
wonderingly,  ever  desirous  to  search  out  any 
doubt. 

"No,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  decidedly,  "not 
the  best  kinds,  but  it  sometimes  happens  that 
111 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

one  can  buy  useful  things  that  help — to  a  cer- 
tain degree — in  obtaining  happiness:  and  it  is 
those  useful  things  I  hope  to  buy." 

"Useful  things,"  Montagu  repeated  in  a  dis- 
appointed tone,  "like  pinafores?  Those  sort  of 
things  wouldn't  make  me  happy."  Montagu 
loathed  the  blue  pinafores  enforced  by  Miss 
Esperance,  and  considered  it  a  degradation  to 
wear  one. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  buy  pinafores," 
said  Mr.  Wycherly;  "they  are  not  the  only 
useful  things  in  the  world." 

"Useful  things  are  always  dull,"  Montagu 
persisted. 

"On  the  contrary,"  Mr.  Wycherly  replied, 
"useful  things  are  sometimes  full  of  the  most 
exquisite  romance." 

That  day  early  after  lunch  he  called  upon 
Lady  Alicia  Carruthers.  She  was  at  home  and 
alone,  and  he  stayed  with  her  nearly  all  the 
afternoon.  Lady  Alicia  would  not  let  him  go 
till  he  had  had  a  cup  of  tea,  and  this  marked  an 
epoch  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Wycherly  at  Remote, 
for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  broken  bread  in 
a  neighbour's  house. 

112 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

Shortly  after  this  he  astonished  his  relatives 
by  suddenly  demanding  entire  control  of  his 
property.  He  sent  for  the  family  lawyer,  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  Woodhouse,  and  went  into  his  affairs 
with  a  thoroughness  and  an  amount  of  legal 
acumen  that  quite  amazed  that  worthy  man. 

Mr.  Wycherly's  brothers  were  by  no  means 
pleased.  For  many  years — ever  since  he  had, 
much  against  their  will,  and  in  direct  opposition 
to  the  advice  and  warnings  showered  upon  him, 
resigned  his  fellowship  and  withdrawn  himself 
finally  from  the  scene  of  all  his  former  interests 
— he  had  been  well  content  to  spend  about  half 
his  little  income  while  the  remainder  accu- 
mulated under  their  careful  stewardship,  pre- 
sumably for  their  benefit  and  that  of  their 
children.  He  had  asked  no  questions  and  ap- 
peared, as  indeed  he  was,  quite  contented  with 
the  arrangement.  So  entirely  had  he  accepted 
existing  conditions,  that  when  he  wanted  money 
in  a  hurry,  in  order  to  see  that  Miss  Esperance 
and  the  children  should  make  the  journey  in 
decent  comfort,  he  had  sold  his  most  precious 
books  instead  of  telegraphing  to  his  solicitor. 

But  with  the  advent  of  Archie's  children  Mr. 
113 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Wycherly  was  completely  shaken  out  of  his 
groove.  His  humble  desire  to  hide  his  shame 
from  the  eyes  of  men  (for  to  him,  even  in  times 
when  occasional  excess  was  regarded  by  the 
majority  less  severely  than  it  is  now,  it  meant 
disgrace  and  dishonour)  gave  way  to  the  more 
ardent  desire  that  these  boys  might  take  their 
place  in  the  world  he  had  left;  see,  and  be  seen, 
and,  if  possible,  seize  all  the  opportunities  that 
he  himself  had  thrown  away. 

Mr.  Woodhouse  had  travelled  all  the  way 
from  Shrewsbury  to  Edinburgh  to  confer  with 
Mr.  Wycherly,  and  he  stayed  with  Lady  Alicia, 
for  the  public  house  at  Burnhead  was  of  a  very 
humble  order,  having  no  bedroom  to  offer  to 
the  wayfaring  stranger.  Like  many  other 
people,  he  had  fallen  under  the  charm  of  Miss 
Esperance,  and  he  not  only  acquiesced,  but 
positively  encouraged  Mr.  Wycherly  in  all  his 
plans  for  the  disposal  of  his  property.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  he  was  not  sorry  to  see  his 
other  clients  of  that  name  disappointed. 
"  They've  kept  him  short  all  these  years,  when 
they  had  no  earthly  right  to,  just  because  he 
and  the  old  lady  are  as  unworldly  as  a  pair  of 
114 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

babies — and  now,  after  all  their  scheming  and 
saving,  the  whole  of  that  money  will  go  to 
benefit  her  relations,"  said  Mr.  Woodhouse  to 
Lady  Alicia,  with  a  chuckle.  "It's  poetic  jus- 
tice, that's  what  I  call  it." 

Mr.  Woodhouse  was  standing  on  the  hearth- 
rug warming  his  coat-tails.  He  had  returned 
for  the  night  from  Remote,  and  was  quite 
prepared  to  enjoy  a  comfortable  chat  with 
Lady  Alicia  and  her  pretty  daughter,  Margaret, 
who  were  sitting  by  the  fire  knitting  diligently. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know?"  asked  Lady 
Alicia,  who  had  never  dared  ask  the  question 
of  Miss  Esperance,  "what  caused  the — er — 
mental  break-down,  that  made  Mr.  Wycherly 
leave  Oxford?" 

The  keen  eyes  under  the  bushy  eyebrows 
twinkled  with  amusement  as  Mr.  Woodhouse 
surveyed  his  hostess,  who  was,  he  very  well 
knew,  devoured  by  curiosity. 

"I've  never  really  heard  the  rights  of  it,"  he 
said  cautiously,  "but  from  what  I  have  heard 
I  should  gather  that  it  was,  as  usual,  saving 
your  presence,  my  dear  young  lady,  a  woman 
who  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief." 
115 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  pretty  Margaret,  "how 
very  sad.  Did  she  die?" 

"She  was,"  said  Mr.  Woodhouse,  gazing  into 
the  gracious,  pitiful  young  face  uplifted  to  his, 
"a  hard,  scheming  woman,  beautiful,  of  course, 
not  over  young;  in  fact,  I  think  she  was  older 
than  he  was.  He,  then,  was  considered  the 
handsomest  man  in  Oxford,  very  distinguished, 
you  know,  with  his  white  hair  and  young  face, 
all  the  Wycherlys  go  gray  very  early.  At  that 
time  there  seemed  no  honour  in  the  university 
to  which  he  might  not  aspire.  He  was  popular 
in  society " 

"He  has  the  most  beautiful  manners,"  Lady 
Alicia  remarked,  laying  down  her  knitting  and 
preparing  to  enjoy  herself. 

"He  had  then.  In  fact,  in  Oxford  he  was 
looked  upon  as  a  very  brilliant  and  rising  young 
man;  and  the  fact  that  he  had  some  private 
means  made  it  possible  for  him  to  go  into 
Society,  with  a  big  'S,'  rather  more  than  is 
usual  in  such  cases." 

"I  always  felt,"  said  Lady  Alicia,  bridling, 
"that  he  had  at  some  time  or  another  belonged 
to  the  great  world.    But  what  of  the  lady?" 
116 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

"She  came  down  for  Commemoration  Week; 
stayed,  I  think,  with  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church, 
and  made  a  dead  set  at  Wycherly.  He  went 
down  before  her  like  a  ninepin,  and  they  were 
engaged,  and  there  was  'a  marriage  arranged  to 
take  place,'  before  the  week  was  out." 

"Why  didn't  it  take  place?"  asked  pretty 
Margaret  eagerly. 

"Because,  my  dear  young  lady,  the  lady  in 
question  happened  to  fascinate  a  richer  man 
just  a  week  before  the  wedding  day,  and  poor 
Wycherly  discovered  the  whole  affair  in  some 
fashion  that  was  a  very  great  shock  to  him. 
The  only  thing  he  was  ever  heard  to  say  about 
it  was  that  it  hurt  him  rather  to  hear  of  her  mar- 
riage to  the  other  man  while  he  was  still  under 
the  impression  that  she  was  engaged  to  him." 

"She  wasn't  worth  grieving  over,"  Lady 
Alicia  cried  indignantly. 

"Poor  Mr.  Wycherly!"  pretty  Margaret  said 
softly.  "And  he  is  so  kind  and  gentle  always." 

"I  hope  her  marriage  turned  out  badly," 
said  Lady  Alicia  vindictively. 

"Your  ladyship's  pious  hope  was  amply  ful- 
filled," Mr.  Woodhouse  replied. 
117 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Won't  you  tell  us  who  she  was?"  Lady 
Alicia  demanded  in  honeyed  tones. 

"Alas,  dear  Lady  Alicia,  that  I  must  not  do. 
She  is  dead — de  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum,  you 
know — may  she  rest  in  peace!" 

Lady  Alicia  folded  up  her  knitting.  "In 
that  case,"  she  said  somewhat  abruptly,  "we 
must  not  keep  you  out  of  your  bed  any  longer, 
you  have  had  a  tiring  day." 


"Is  he  quite  capable  of  managing  his  own 
affairs?"  Mr.  Wycherly 's  brothers  eagerly  asked 
Mr.  Woodhouse  on  his  return  some  three  days 
later. 

"Perfectly  capable,"  answered  that  gentle- 
man decidedly.  "Indeed,  he  shows  quite  re- 
markable business  capacity,  considering  how 
long  it  is  since  he  has  undertaken  anything  of 
the  kind.  It's  a  thousand  pities  he  resigned 
his  fellowship.  I  would  not  advise  you  to  at- 
tempt any  sort  of  interference  with  him — for, 
however  reluctant  I  might  be  to  give  evidence 
as  to  the  impropriety  of  such  a  course,  I  should 
be  obliged  in  common  honesty  to  do  so.  It  was 
118 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

certainly  Quixotic  to  resign  his  fellowship  when 
he  did,  but  it  could  not  be  brought  up  as  a 
proof  of  mental  incapacity  at  this  time  of  day." 

Mr.  Wycherly's  brothers  did  not  fail  to  re- 
mind him  at  this  juncture  that,  had  he  listened 
to  them,  he  would  still  be  enjoying  the  income 
of  his  fellowship.  "No  one,"  they  had  reiter- 
ated, "could  take  it  from  him  while  he  lived. 
Once  a  fellow,  always  a  fellow — a  fellowship 
was  a  freehold,  and  what  did  it  matter  to  the 
authorities  in  Oxford  what  he  did  north  of  the 
Tweed?" 

But  Mr.  Wycherly  had  loved  his  college  too 
dearly  to  bring  shame  upon  her,  and  if  he  could 
not  serve,  neither  would  he  accept  wage.  And 
now  that  he  had  every  reason  to  wish  that  his 
income  was  larger,  it  was  the  one  step  in  all  the 
inglorious  past  that  he  did  not  regret. 

Through  the  family  solicitor  he  demanded 
an  account  of  all  monies  belonging  to  himself: 
explaining  with  the  utmost  clearness  that  he 
intended  to  educate  both  Montagu  and  Edmund 
"as  befitted  their  position  in  life,"  that  he 
wished  to  adopt  both  of  them,  and  that,  with 
their  aunt's  consent,  the  elder  of  the  two  was 
119 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

to  take  his  name,  and  inherit  whatever  he 
could  leave  him. 

"It  won't  be  much,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Wood- 
house,  when  he  was  discussing  ways  and  means 
with  him,  "for  I  intend  Montagu  to  go  to  Win- 
chester and  New  College,  and  of  course  Ed- 
mund, should  he  go  into  the  navy,  will  need  a 
considerable  allowance  for  years  to  come.  But 
whatever  there  is,  that  they  are  to  have,  and, 
above  all,  I  beg  you  to  make  it  perfectly  clear 
to  Miss  Esperance  that  she  need  be  under  no 
apprehension  as  to  their  future." 

For  the  sake  of  "Archie's  boys"  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly even  bethought  him  of  old  friends  from 
whose  kindly  questioning  eyes  he  would  fain 
have  hidden.  Insensibly,  too,  he  accustomed 
himself  to  dwell  fondly  upon  the  past,  that 
pleasant  past  once  so  full  of  success,  of  dignity, 
and  of  the  intellectual  honours  so  dear  to  him; 
that  happy  time  preceding  those  dark  years  of 
weakness  and  shame  and  mental  degradation. 

Thus  he  found  himself  telling  Montagu  all 

about  William  of  Wykeham  of  pious  memory: 

of  the  "Founder's  Crozier"  and  the  "Great 

West  Window,"  and  of  the  Warden's  library  at 

120 


Elsa  Drives  the  Nail  Home 

New  College  where  they  keep  the  Founder's 
Jewel.  Day  by  day  Montagu  would  revert  to 
these  entrancing  topics  till  Oxford  rivalled  even 
Troy  in  his  affections,  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
himself  was  destined  one  day  to  go  and  live  in 
this  wonderful  place  gave  an  even  greater  zeal 
to  his  studies  than  before. 

Moreover,  pictures  of  this  same  Oxford  were 
found  in  boxes  stored  away,  and  were  brought 
forth  and,  at  Montagu's  request,  hung  up,  till 
what  with  books  and  what  with  engravings 
there  was  hardly  an  inch  of  drab-coloured  wall 
to  be  seen. 

As  to  the  matter  of  breakfast — Elsa  was  so 
piteous  in  her  account  of  how  that  meal  was 
neglected  by  Mr.  Wycherly,  and  he  proclaimed 
his  loneliness  in  such  moving  terms,  that 
Miss  Esperance  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  was  really  far  more  in  need  of  her  supervis- 
ion than  the  little  boys,  and  it  ended  in  their 
breakfasting  together  in  his  room  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  Mr.  Wycherly,  on  the  morning  that 
initiated  this  new  arrangement,  was  as  nervous 
and  excited  as  an  undergraduate  who  expects 
''ladies  to  lunch"  in  his  rooms  for  the  first  time. 
121 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EDMUND  RECHRISTENS   MR.   WYCHERLY 

"Time  was,"  the  golden  head 

Irrevocably  said; 
"But  time  which  none  can  bind, 
While  flowing  fast  away,  leaves  love  behind." 

R.  L.  S. 

"TT  is  just  a  year  to-day  since  the  children 
A  came/'  said  Miss  Esperance,  smiling  across 
the  table  at  Mr.  Wycherly,  as  they  sat  together 
at  breakfast  in  his  room. 

"In  some  ways,"  he  replied  thoughtfully,  "it 
seems  as  though  they  must  always  have  been 
here :  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  life  without 
them — now.  In  others,  the  time  has  gone  so 
fast  that  it  might  be  but  yesterday  they  came." 

"When  I  was  younger,"  Miss  Esperance 
went  on  in  her  gentle,  old  voice,  "I  used  to  look 
forward  with  such  dread  to  a  lonely  old  age.  I 
used  to  think  'what  would  life  be  if  my  father 
and  my  brothers  died? ' ;  and  one  by  one  they 
were  all  taken  from  me,  and  Archie  was  the 
122 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

last  of  our  family — and  he  is  dead.  But  the 
Lord  has  been  very  merciful.  First  he  sent 
you  to  me,  and  then  the  children  to  us  both: 
'Goodness  and  mercy  all  my  life  have  surely 
followed  me.'" 

Miss  Esperance  paused,  still  smiling  in  the 
happy  confidence  of  the  peace  that  wrapped  her 
round. 

If  Mr.  Wycherly  did  not  answer  it  was  not 
because  he  did  not  agree  with  Miss  Esperance 
as  to  the  wonderful  workings  of  Providence. 
But  speech  on  such  subjects  was  to  him  almost 
impossible;  and  she,  looking  wistfully  into  his 
face,  partly  realised  this.  But  she  was  not 
quite  satisfied.  Religion  was,  for  her,  so  en- 
tirely the  mainspring  of  her  every  impulse,  her 
every  action,  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  in 
any  way  to  separate  it  from  the  most  ordinary 
daily  doings;  and  to  her  it  was  as  easy  and  as 
natural  to  confess  her  faith  and  her  deepest 
feelings  with  regard  to  these  matters  as  it  was 
impossible  to  him.  This  inability  on  his  part 
formed  to  a  certain  extent  a  barrier  between 
them :  a  barrier  which  can  only  be  broken  down 
by  mutual  consent;  and  while  he  would  have 
123 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

done,  as  in  very  truth  he  did,  anything  in  the 
world  to  give  her  pleasure  and  peace  of  mind: 
this  thing  which  she  would  have  valued  most, 
he  could  not  give  her.  He  could  not  talk  about 
his  religious  views. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  it  is  possible  that 
there  recurred  to  the  minds  of  both  an  incident 
not  wholly  without  bearing  on  their  future 
intercourse.  One  Sabbath  evening,  shortly 
after  he  had  gone  to  live  with  Miss  Esperance 
at  Remote,  she  asked  him  to  " engage  in  prayer" 
at  family  worship — the  " family"  consisting  of 
herself  and  Elsa. 

Mr.  Wycherly  complied  readily  enough,  for 
he  knew  plenty  of  prayers:  but  when  he  prayed, 
he  prayed  for  "the  bishops  and  curates  and  all 
congregations  committed  to  their  charge";  he 
prayed  for  the  "good  estate  of  the  Catholic 
Church  here  upon  earth";  and,  worst  of  all— 
it  being  the  collect  for  the  day — he  prayed 
that  "as  thy  Holy  Angels  always  do  thee  ser- 
vice in  heaven,  so  by  thy  appointment  they 
may  succour  and  defend  us  on  earth."  Never 
was  such  a  scandal  in  a  strictly  Presbyterian 
household.  Elsa  proclaimed  throughout  the 
124 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

village  that  Miss  Esperance  had  been  induced 
to  harbour  an  undoubted  Puseyite,  and  it  would 
not  have  surprised  her  in  the  least  if  he  had 
prayed  for  the  Pope  himself. 

And  Miss  Esperance,  knowing  the  length  and 
strength  of  Elsa's  tongue,  felt  herself  constrained 
to  explain  (she  did  it  with  considerable  hu- 
mour) to  the  Reverend  Peter  Gloag  what  had 
really  happened.  Whereupon  the  minister  dis- 
missed Mr.  Wycherly  and  all  his  works  as  being 
"  fettered  by  formulae ":  and  to  the  great  relief 
of  this  prisoner  in  the  chains  of  ecclesiasticism 
he  was  never  again  asked  to  conduct  family 
worship.  He  innocently  wondered  why,  for 
he  imagined  with  some  complacency  that  he 
had  acquitted  himself  gracefully  in  what  had 
been  rather  a  trying  ordeal. 

The  tender  smile  of  Miss  Esperance,  as  she 
reflected  upon  her  many  mercies,  had  changed 
to  a  smile  of  no  less  tender  amusement  as  she 
recalled  those  by-gone  days,  and  Mr.  Wycherly, 
ever  quick  to  notice  any  change  in  the  dear  old 
face  he  loved  so  well,  felt  that  he  might  now 
venture  upon  more  familiar  ground. 

"You  look  amused,"  he  remarked;  " would 
125 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

it  be  a  safe  conjecture  to  say  that  you  are  prob- 
ably thinking  of  Edmund?" 

"That  reminds  me,"  Miss  Esperance  ex- 
claimed, without  committing  herself.  "I  do 
wish  that  we  could  induce  that  dear  little  boy 
not  to  call  you  'man.'  It  is  so  disrespectful." 

It  had  never  struck  Mr.  Wycherly  in  that 
light.  In  fact  he  had  found  considerable  secret 
comfort  in  the  fact  that  Edmund,  at  all  events, 
had  from  the  very  first  considered  him  deserving 
of  that  epithet.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  sensitive, 
and  he  knew  perfectly  well  in  what  sort  of 
estimation  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Burnhead 
held  him. 

"Do  you  think  it  matters?"  he  asked  mildly, 
"what  such  a  baby  calls  me?" 

"Not  to  you,  certainly,"  Miss  Esperance  re- 
plied promptly;  "but  I  do  think  it  matters  for 
him.  He  is  three  now,  and  it's  time  he  knew 
better." 

"Surely  three  is  not  a  very  great  age?"  Mr. 
Wycherly  pleaded. 

"It  is  old  enough  for  Edmund  to  want  his 
own  way,  and  generally  to  take  it,"  Miss  Esper- 
ance rejoined  as  she  rose  from  the  table;  "and 
126 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

it  is  old  enough  for  him  to  learn  that  he  must 
be  dutiful  and  obedient." 

As  Mr.  Wycherly  held  the  door  open  for  her 
to  go  out,  he  remarked  deferentially,  "But, 
don't  you  think,  dear  Miss  Esperance,  that 
either  'Mr.'  or  'Sir'  is  a  somewhat  formal  mode 
of  address  to  exact  from  such  a  baby?" 

"I  called  my  honoured  father  'Sir'  from  the 
time  I  could  speak  at  all,  and  when  I  was  young 
it  would  never  for  one  moment  have  been  per- 
mitted to  us  to  address  any  grown-up  person 
otherwise  than  with  respect,"  Miss  Esperance 
continued,  as  she  paused  in  the  doorway.  "I 
will  see  what  I  can  do  about  it  this  very  day. 
I  feel  sure  that  if  we  reason  with  that  dear 
child,  we  can  induce  him  to  find  some  more 
suitable  way  of  addressing  you." 

When  Miss  Esperance  had  gone,  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  had  shut  his  door,  he  shook  his  head 
and  laughed.  Two  or  three  times  lately  he  had 
tried  a  fall  with  Edmund,  and  that  lusty  infant 
invariably  came  off  an  easy  victor. 

It  was  the  daily  custom  for  both  the  little 
boys  to  visit  Mr.  Wycherly  for  a  few  minutes 
after  breakfast,  when  biscuits  were  doled  out 
127 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

and  there  was  much  cheery  good-fellowship. 
Mr.  Wycherly  himself  made  periodical  visits  to 
Edinburgh  to  purchase  these  biscuits,  which 
were  adorned  with  pink  and  white  sugar,  and 
were  of  a  delectable  flavour.  Once  the  biscuits 
were  consumed — they  had  three  each — Montagu 
settled  down  to  his  lessons,  and  Edmund,  ever 
unwillingly,  departed  with  Robina. 

Through  the  open  window  that  morning  there 
floated  an  imperative  baby  voice.  "See  man," 
it  insisted,  "me  go  and  see  man." 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  out  and  Edmund  looked 
up.  He  stretched  out  his  fat  arms,  balancing 
himself  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other, 
as  though  poised  for  flight,  while  in  the  thrush- 
like  tones  that  were  always  irresistible  to  Mr. 
Wycherly  he  gave  his  usual  cry  of  "Uppie! 
Uppie!  deah  man." 

When  Edmund  called  him  "deah  man"  there 
was  nothing  on  earth  that  Mr.  Wycherly  could 
withhold.  "Bring  Edmund  up,  Montagu,"  he 
said,  leaning  out  of  the  window.  "We'll  have 
a  holiday  to-day,  it's  a  kind  of  birthday.  Just 
a  year  since  you  came." 

But  the  gentle  voice  of  Miss  Esperance  inter- 
128 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

posed.  "Edmund  must  say  'Please,  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly/ or  'please,  sir/  then  he  can  go  up." 

"See  man,  me  go  and  see  man,"  Edmund  per- 
sisted, absolutely  ignoring  his  aunt's  admonition 
and  jumping  up  and  down  as  though  he  could 
reach  Mr.  Wycherly  that  way. 

"No,  Edmund,"  Miss  Esperance  said  firmly; 
"you  must  say,  'Please,  Mr.  Wycherly.'" 

Edmund  looked  at  his  aunt  and  his  round 
chubby  face  expressed  the  utmost  defiance. 
"I  sail  say  man,  and  I  will  go  to  man,"  he  an- 
nounced loudly  and  distinctly,  "he's  my  man, 
and  I  'ove  him — I  don't  'ove  you,"  he  added 
emphatically. 

"Edmund,  my  son,  come  here."  There  was 
no  resisting  the  resolution  in  that  very  gentle 
voice.  Miss  Esperance  seated  herself  on  the 
garden  seat  under  Mr.  Wycherly's  window,  and 
Edmund  came  at  her  bidding,  to  stand  in  front 
of  her,  square  and  sturdy  and  rebellious. 

Mr.  Wycherly  had  withdrawn  from  the  win- 
dow when  Miss  Esperance  first  began  her  ex- 
postulation with  Edmund.  Now  it  struck  him 
as  rather  shabby  to  leave  her  to  wrestle  with 
that  young  sinner  alone  over  a  matter  which 
129 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

certainly  referred  to  himself;  so  he  hastened 
downstairs  and  joined  her  in  the  garden. 

On  his  appearance  Edmund  began  his  dance 
again,  and  his  petition  of  "Uppie!  Uppie!" 

Mr.  Wycherly  went  and  sat  on  the  seat  be- 
side Miss  Esperance,  trying  hard  to  look  stern 
and  judicial,  and  failing  signally,  while  the 
chubby  culprit  made  ineffectual  attempts  to 
climb  upon  his  knee. 

''Edmund  must  say  'Please,  Mr.  Wycherly/ 
or  'Please,  sir/"  Miss  Esperance  repeated. 

"Peese,  Mittah  Chahley,"  echoed  Edmund  in 
tones  that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone. 

Now  if  "man"  was  a  disrespectful  and  famil- 
iar mode  of  address,  "Chahlee"  seemed  a  sin- 
gularly inappropriate  pseudonym  for  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly. 

Even  Montagu  giggled. 

The  matutinal  service  of  biscuits  was  long 
overdue,  Edmund  grew  impatient,  and  the 
corners  of  his  rosy  mouth  drooped.  "I've  said 
'Chahley/"  he  announced  reproachfully,  "and 
you  don't  take  me." 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  beseechingly  at  Miss 
Esperance.  "I  think  he  has  done  his  best," 
130 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

he  said  in  deprecating  tones,  "it  is  a  difficult 
name  for  a  baby." 

"Chahlee!  Chahlee!"  chirped  Edmund,  be- 
ginning to  dance  again.  "Uppie!  Uppie!" 
then  turning  to  his  aunt — "I've  said  'im." 

"You  haven't  said  it  right — but  perhaps — " 
Miss  Esperance  wavered. 

Edmund  marched  up  to  his  aunt,  placed  both 
his  dimpled  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  gazing 
earnestly  into  her  face  with  bunches  of  unshed 
tears  still  hanging  on  his  lashes,  remarked  vin- 
dictively: "I  wis  a  gate  bid  ball  would  come 
and  bounce  at  you." 

Miss  Esperance  burst  out  laughing  and 
stooped  to  kiss  the  red,  indignant  baby-face. 
"All  the  same,  my  dear  son,  you  must  learn  to 
do  what  you  are  told." 

"Me  go  wiv — Chahlee,"  Edmund  announced 
triumphantly,  as  Mr.  Wycherly  lifted  him  up. 

"Am  I  to  call  you  Charlie,  too?"  asked  Mon- 
tagu, who  was  rather  jealous  where  his  tutor's 
favour  was  concerned. 

"Pray,  don't!"  exclaimed  that  gentleman 
hastily. 

"Chahlee,  Chahlee,"  crowed  Edmund  from 
131 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  safe  vantage  ground  of  Mr.  Wycherly's 
arms  as  he  was  carried  upstairs.  "Deah  man, 
Chahlee." 

Miss  Esperance  sat  on  where  she  was.  Her 
interference  had  certainly  not  improved  mat- 
ters, and  she  was  really  perturbed.  That  she 
should  in  any  way,  however  inadvertently  and 
innocently,  have  rendered  Mr.  Wycherly  in  the 
smallest  degree  ridiculous  was  most  distressing 
to  her. 

Had  the  baby  done  his  best,  or  was  it  but 
one  more  instance  of  his  supreme  subtlety  in 
the  avoidance  of  doing  what  he  was  told? 

Miss  Esperance  adored  Edmund.  He  was  a 
Bethune  from  the  top  curl  of  his  fair  hair  to  his 
small,  straight,  pink  toes.  Handsome,  ruddy, 
with  very  blue  eyes;  eyes  that  changed  in 
colour  with  his  every  emotion,  even  as  the  sea 
so  many  of  his  forbears  had  served  changes 
with  the  passing  hours;  he  was  the  image  of 
Archie  Bethune,  his  father.  He  was  like  her 
brother,  whose  name  he  bore,  and  still  stronger 
was  his  likeness  to  the  admiral,  her  father,  that 
generous  and  choleric  sailor  whose  memory  she 
so  revered. 

132 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

Yet  no  one  knew  better  than  Miss  Esperance 
the  faults  of  the  Bethune  temperament.  Had 
she  not  suffered  from  them  herself  in  the  past? 
And  she  was  painfully  anxious  to  keep  in  check 
the  wilful  impulsiveness  so  strongly  marked  in 
her  great-nephew — that  taking  of  their  own 
way,  no  matter  at  what  cost  in  tribulation  to 
themselves  or  suffering  to  others.  How  many 
Bethunes  had  it  ruined  in  the  past!  And  yet 
if  she  rebuked  him  now  it  might  confuse  the 
baby:  and  above  all,  Miss  Esperance  desired 
to  be  just  in  her  dealings  with  these  small 
creatures  committed  to  her  charge. 

As  she  sat  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  children's 
voices  borne  to  her  on  the  soft  winds  of  early 
summer,  she  prayed  for  guidance. 

Suddenly  the  children's  voices  ceased,  for  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  reading  aloud.  It  was  his  habit 
to  read  to  them  odd  scraps  of  anything  that  had 
happened  to  please  himself,  while  they  munched 
their  biscuits.  Sometimes  they,  or  at  all  events 
Montagu,  understood;  as  often  they  did  not: 
but  both  found  some  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  fine 
English  gracefully  read.  Miss  Esperance  lis- 
tened, and  as  if  in  answer  to  her  prayer  she 
133 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

heard,  in  Mr.  Wycherly's  gentle,  cultivated 
tones,  these  words:  "Love  is  fitter  than  fear, 
gentleness  better  than  beating,  to  bring  up  a 
child  rightly  in  learning." 

So  for  a  while  Baby  Edmund  was  allowed  to 
call  Mr.  Wycherly  very  much  what  he  pleased. 
He  occasionally  conceded  something  to  conven- 
tion by  addressing  him  as  "Mittah  man"  or 
"Mittah  Chahlee" — but  as  a  rule  he  took  his 
own  way;  finally  adopting  for  Mr.  Wycherly 
Elsa's  usual  style  of  address  toward  himself, 
namely,  "Dearie." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Wycherly  as 
possible  that  anyone  should  address  him  as 
"Dearie,"  and  this  particular  term  of  endear- 
ment did  sound  somewhat  of  an  anachronism. 

But  he  liked  it,  he  liked  it  amazingly:  and 
seeing  this,  Miss  Esperance  interfered  no  more. 

In  the  end,  however,  it  was  Montagu  who 
found  a  pet  name  for  Mr.  Wycherly.  "What 
are  you  to  me?"  the  little  boy  asked  one  day. 
"Are  you  an  uncle?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "I  am  your 
guardian." 

"What's  a  guardian?" 
134 


Edmund  Rechristens  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Someone  who  takes  care  of  a  child  who  has 
lost  his  parents." 

"May  I  call  you  guardian?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"May  Edmund?" 

"Assuredly." 

"Then  we  will — it's  more  friendlier  than 
'Mr.,'  don't  you  think?" 

And  it  ended  in  Guardian  being  abbreviated 
into  'Guardie/  so  that  Mr.  Wycherly  was,  after 
all,  the  only  member  of  the  household  who  was 
permitted  a  diminutive. 


135 


CHAPTER  IX 

CUPID  ABROAD 

"Cupid  abroad  was  lated  in  the  night, 

His  wings  were  wet  with  ranging  in  the  rain; 
Harbour  he  sought,  to  me  he  took  his  flight, 
To  dry  his  plumes,"  I  heard  the  boy  complain; 

"I  ope'd  the  door,  and  granted  his  desire. 
I  rose  myself,  and  made  the  wag  a  fire." 

EVERYONE  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Burn- 
head  called  Lady  Alicia's  youngest  daugh- 
ter " Bonnie  Margaret,"  so  full  of  charm  and 
gaiety  and  gentleness  was  she.  Not  all  the 
year  was  Lady  Alicia  at  the  "big  hoose": 
since  the  death  of  her  husband — worthy  David 
Carruthers,  late  Advocate — she  always  win- 
tered in  Edinburgh;  but  with  May,  Bonnie 
Margaret  came  back  to  Burnhead,  unless,  in- 
deed, as  had  happened  lately,  she  spent  that 
month  in  London  with  one  of  her  married 
sisters.  But  at  all  events  some  part  of  the 
summer  saw  her  back  at  Burnhead,  and  the  sun 
seemed  to  shine  the  brighter  for  her  coming. 
136 


Cupid  Abroad 

Like  everyone  else,  she  was  very  fond  of  Miss 
Esperance,  and  she  often  came  to  Remote  to 
play  with  the  little  boys  who  whole-heartedly 
approved  of  her.  Mr.  Wycherly,  too,  was  fond 
of  Bonnie  Margaret,  and  somehow,  recently, 
she  had  seemed  to  come  across  him  very  often 
during  his  walks  with  Montagu.  She  would 
join  them,  and  sometimes  spend  a  whole  long 
afternoon  in  the  little  copse  sitting  beside  Mr. 
Wycherly  at  the  foot  of  his  favourite  tree,  while 
Montagu  played  at  the  brook. 

Very  shyly  and  with  many  most  becoming 
blushes,  Margaret  confided  to  Mr.  Wycherly 
that  she  had  met  a  nephew  of  his  during  her 
visits  to  her  sister.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  not  in 
the  least  interested  in  his  nephew,  but  he  was 
interested  in  anything  Bonnie  Margaret  chose 
to  talk  about,  and  the  nephew  acquired  a 
fictitious  importance  for  this  reason. 

This  nephew  was,  Margaret  carefully  ex- 
plained, an  exceedingly  clever  young  man,  who 
had  taken  a  good  degree — but  he  didn't  want 
to  take  orders,  and  he  hated  school-mastering 
— he  had  tried  it — and  now  he  had  gone 
into  a  friend's  business  as  a  wine  merchant, 
137 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

and  his  people  were  very  much  annoyed. 
What  was  Mr.  Wycherly's  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject? And  didn't  he  think  it  was  very  noble 
of  this  young  man  to  earn  his  bread  in  this 
particular  fashion?  It  had  taken  many  meet- 
ings and  much  elaborate  and  roundabout  ex- 
planation upon  Margaret's  part  before  this  final 
statement  of  the  situation  was  reached;  and 
Mr.  Wycherly,  having  in  the  meantime  heard 
complaints  that  Bonnie  Margaret  was  very  ill 
to  please  in  the  matter  of  a  husband,  began  to 
put  two  and  two  together.  Many  swains  had 
sighed  at  Margaret's  shrine,  and  she  had  re- 
ceived what  her  mother  called  "several  quite 
good  offers,"  but  she  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  any  of  them.  She  was  in  character  fully  as 
decided  as  Lady  Alicia  herself.  But  she  was 
demure  and  gentle  in  manner,  and  instead  of 
fighting  for  her  own  way,  as  is  the  custom  of 
the  strenuous,  simply  took  it  quietly,  and  with- 
out vehement  declaration  of  any  kind. 

When  appealed  to  as  to  his  opinion  of  the 

nobility  of  his  nephew's  conduct  in  thus  plunging 

into  trade,  Margaret  and  Mr.  Wycherly  were 

sitting  on  a,  low  wall,  watching  Edmund  and 

138 


Cupid  Abroad 

Mause  and  Montagu  disport  themselves  in  the 
hay-field  it  bordered. 

The  summer  sun  was  warm,  and  Margaret 
wore  a  floppy  leghorn  hat  which  threw  a  most 
becoming  shade  over  her  serious  grey  eyes; 
eyes  with  long  black  lashes  in  somewhat  start- 
ling contrast  to  her  very  fair  hair.  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly  particularly  admired  her  Greek  profile, 
her  short  upper  lip,  the  lovely  oval  of  her  cheek 
and  chin.  Still  more  did  he  appreciate  her 
sweet  consideration  and  gentleness;  and  for  the 
first  time  since  he  came  to  live  in  Scotland  he 
found  himself  wishing  that  he  knew  something 
of  this  nephew  who  so  plainly  occupied  a  prom- 
inent position  in  the  thoughts  of  this  kind  and 
beautiful  girl. 

"Of  course,"  Mr.  Wycherly  remarked  guard- 
edly, "he  is  perfectly  right  to  earn  his  own 
living  in  the  way  that  seems  best  to  him,  though 
whether  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  run 
counter  to  the  prejudices  of  his  relatives  in 
order  to  do  so  is  not  quite  clear." 

"But  you  would  not,  would  you,  look  down 
on  anyone  just  because  he  happened  to  be  in 
trade?  If  he  is  a  cultured  gentleman  already, 
139 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

his  being  in  trade  can't  make  him  less  of  a 
cultured  gentleman,  can  it?" 

"Of  course  not,"  Mr.  Wycherly  agreed,  "but 
I  think  I  can  understand,  perhaps,  some  slight 
reason  for  annoyance  on  the  part  of  his  people. 
You  see,  had  he  announced  earlier  this  extreme 
desire  to  go  into  business,  it  is  hardly  likely 
that  they  would  have  given  him  an  expensive 
education  at  the  University.  He  was,  you  tell 
me,  five  years  at  Oxford?" 

"He  didn't  waste  his  time  there,"  Margaret 
answered  eagerly,  "he  took  all  sorts  of  honours: 
but  he  loathes  teaching—  Margaret  stopped, 
for  Mr.  Wycherly  was  looking  at  her  with  a 
curiously  amused  expression  which  seemed  to 
say,  "How  is  it  that  you  are  so  remarkably 
conversant  with  the  likes  and  dislikes  of  this 
young  man?" 

She  leant  over  the  wall  to  gather  some  of  the 
big  horse  gowans  that  grew  in  the  field,  so  that 
her  face  was  hidden  from  Mr.  Wycherly.  She 
fastened  a  little  bunch  of  them  into  her  waist- 
band; then  she  said  in  the  detached  tone  of 
one  who  seeks  for  information  merely  from 
curiosity: 

140 


Cupid  Abroad 

"  Don't  you  think  that  at  some  time  or  other 
one  has  to  settle  what  to  do  with  one's  life, 
regardless  of  whether  it  is  pleasing  to  other 
people  or  not — I  mean  in  very  big  and  im- 
portant things?" 

Mr.  Wycherly,  who  thought  she  was  still 
referring  to  his  nephew,  cordially  agreed  that 
for  most  of  us  such  a  course  at  some  time  or 
other  is  a  necessity. 

As  it  happened,  however,  Bonnie  Margaret 
was  not  talking  of  his  nephew,  but  of  herself. 
Mr.  Wycherly  remembered  this  in  the  following 
October  when,  Lady  Alicia  having  removed  her 
household  to  Edinburgh,  a  startling  rumour 
shook  the  village  to  its  very  foundations — a 
rumour  to  the  effect  that  Bonnie  Margaret  had 
one  night  " taken  the  train"  and  was  married 
next  morning  to  somebody  in  the  south  of 
England. 

Miss  Esperance  was  much  shocked  and  per- 
turbed, the  more  so  that  she  felt  it  devolved 
upon  her,  and  her  alone,  to  break  this  agitating 
intelligence  to  Mr.  Wycherly.  For  was  not  a 
relative  of  his  own  the  chief  culprit?  Miss 
Esperance  could  never  understand  Mr.  Wy- 
141 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

cherly's  indifference   toward  everything  that 
concerned  his  relations. 

She  had  heard  the  news  just  before  supper, 
but  she  waited  until  that  meal  was  finished  lest 
her  communication  might  spoil  his  appetite. 

It  was  their  pleasant  custom  to  sit  and  chat 
for  a  while  every  evening  while  Mr.  Wycherly 
drank  his  single  glass  of  port,  and  cracked  some 
nuts,  which  he  generally  bestowed  next  morning 
upon  the  little  boys. 

He  held  up  his  glass  of  wine  to  the  light,  and 
even  in  the  midst  of  her  uneasiness  Miss  Esper- 
ance noted  with  pleasure  how  steady  was  the 
long,  slender  hand  that  held  the  glass. 

"I  have  heard,"  Miss  Esperance  began  with 
a  deep  sigh,  "some  most  distressing  news  to- 
day about  certain  good  friends  of  yours." 

"Is  Mrs.  Gloag  worse?"  Mr.  Wycherly  asked 
anxiously,  for  the  minister's  wife  was  very 
delicate,  and  was  often  quite  seriously  ill. 

"No,  no,  nobody  is  ill;  but  I  fear  that  our 
good  friend,  Lady  Alicia,  is  in  very  great 
trouble.  Margaret ' ' 

"Has  married  against  her  mother's  wish?" 
Mr.  Wycherly  interrupted  quickly. 
142 


Cupid  Abroad 

"That's  just  what  she  has  done — but  how 
did  you  guess?" 

"And  she  has  married,"  Mr.  Wycherly  con- 
tinued, "a  nephew  of  mine.  If  I  mistake  not, 
Margaret  was  twenty-one  only  the  other  day." 

"It  seems,"  Miss  Esperance  went  on,  much 
astonished  at  the  calmness  with  which  Mr. 
Wycherly  received  these  grievous  tidings,  "that 
this  young  man  proposed  to  Margaret  some 
time  ago;  but  that  Lady  Alicia  wouldn't  hear 
of  any  engagement.  He  asked  for  Margaret 
again  this  summer,  and  was  again  refused: 
though  Margaret  told  her  mother  that  she  in- 
tended to  marry  him  and  considered  herself  en- 
gaged to  him  in  spite  of  everything.  And,  as  you 
say,  directly  she  came  of  age  she  has  done  it." 

Mr.  Wycherly  had  laid  down  his  glass  of  port 
untasted,  when  Miss  Esperance  first  began  to 
speak.  Now  he  lifted  the  decanter  and  poured 
out  another,  offering  it  to  Miss  Esperance. 
"My  dear  friend,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  "they 
are  married.  Nothing  can  alter  that.  Let  us 
drink  pretty  Margaret's  health,  and  wish  her 
all  prosperity  and  happiness,  and  may  the  man 
she  has  chosen  try  to  be  worthy  of  her!" 
143 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Miss  Esperance  demurred :  but  Mr.  Wycherly 
continued  to  lean  across  the  table  with  the  glass 
of  wine  held  out  toward  her,  and  he  looked  so 
pleading,  and  she  so  loved  to  gratify  him,  that 
at  last,  though  a  little  under  protest,  she  con- 
sented to  drink  this  toast,  and  took  one  sip 
from  the  proffered  glass  of  port. 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  that  it  will  turn  out  well," 
she  said  wistfully. 

"She  must  love  him  right  well,"  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly said  thoughtfully,  "and  she  is  not  a 
foolish  girl.  She  has  judgment  and  discretion." 

"Where  love  is  concerned,"  said  Miss  Esper- 
ance, "judgment  and  discretion  generally  go 
to  the  wall." 

And  Mr.  Wycherly  could  find  no  arguments 
in  disproof* of  this  statement. 

Lady  Alicia  made  a  special  journey  to  Re- 
mote for  the  express  purpose  of  reproaching  Mr. 
Wycherly  with  the*  conduct  of  a  nephew  he- had 
never  seen. 

Miss   Esperance  was   out;    Mr.   Wycherly, 

as  usual,  reading  in  his  room.    There  Lady 

Alicia    sought    him    and    plunged    at    once 

into  a  history  of  the  "entanglement,"  as  she 

144 


Cupid  Abroad 

called  it,  concluding  with -these  words:  "I  told 
her  never  to  mention  that  young  man  to  me 
again,  and  she  never  did,  so  of  course  I  con- 
cluded that,  like  a  sensible  girl,  she  had  put  the 
whole  thing  out  of  her  head:  but  the  hussy 
has  married  him,  married  him  without  ever  a 
wedding  present  or  a  single  new  gown,  and 
what  can  I  do?  A  girl,  too,  who  might  have 
married  anyone,  by  far  the  prettiest  of  the 
four,  and  look  how  well  the  rest  have  married!" 

"She  must  love  him  very  much,"  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly  said  dreamily.  "  Pretty  Margaret,  so 
gentle  always  and  so  quiet.  What  strength, 
what  tenacity  of  purpose  under  that  docile 
feminine  exterior!  Dear  Lady  Alicia,  she  is 
more  like  you  than  any  of  your  other  daugh- 
ters." 

"Like  me!"  Lady  Alicia  almost  shouted. 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  /  could  have  run  away 
with  any  bottle-nosed  vintner  that  ever  tasted 
port — /,  forsooth!" 

"But  you  told  me  yourself  that  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman, young  and  good-looking,"  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly  expostulated.  "If  I  remember  rightly, 
too,  something  of  a  scholar — and  Margaret 
145 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

loves  him.  She  has  proved  that  beyond  all 
question.  God  grant  that  he  is  worthy  of  her 
love.  You  can't  unmarry  them,  my  dear  old 
friend,  and  though  you  will  be  angry  with  me, 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  think  it  is  well  you  can't. 
You  must  forgive  them  both." 

"Never,"  said  Lady  Alicia  with  the  greatest 
determination.  "She  has  chosen  her  vintner; 
let  her  stick  to  him." 

"She  will  do  that  in  any  case,"  said  Mr. 
Wycherly;  "but  she  will  love  her  mother  none 
the  less,  and  her  mother  will,  presently,  love 
her  all  the  more." 

"She  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Lady 
Alicia  said  with  considerable  asperity.  "You 
don't  seem  to  realise  what  a  disgraceful  thing 
your  nephew  has  done  in  abducting  my  daugh- 
ter in  this  fashion." 

"I  thought  you  said  she  went  to  him,"  Mr. 
Wycherly  suggested  apologetically. 

For  answer  Lady  Alicia  rose  in  her  wrath  and 
strode  out  of  the  room.  Mr.  Wycherly  hastened 
after  her  across  the  little  landing  and  down  the 
curly  staircase,  but  he  was  not  in  time  to  open 
the  front  door  for  her,  and  she  banged  it  in  his 
146 


Cupid  Abroad 

face.  Mr.  Wycherly  opened  it,  and  stood  on 
the  threshold  just  in  time  to  hear  the  little  gate 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  give  an  angry  click 
as  it  fell  behind  Lady  Alicia's  retreating  form. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  stood 
where  he  was,  wrapped  in  a  reverie  so  absorb- 
ing that  he  started  violently  as  the  green  gate 
slammed  again  and  Lady  Alicia  bustled  up  the 
path  holding  out  her  hand,  and  saying: 

"After  all,  it's  not  your  fault,  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  scold  you;  the  only  redeeming 
feature  in  the  whole  horrible  affair  is  that  he's 
your  nephew  and  therefore  cannot  be  an  utter 
scoundrel,  but  you  must  confess  it  is  very  hard 
for  me." 

Mr.  Wycherly  took  the  extended  hand  and 
shook  it.  "You  must  forgive  her,"  he  said 
gently,  "she  would  never  have  done  it  if  she 
hadn't  been  your  daughter;  think  of  the  cour- 
age and  determination " 

"The  headstrong  folly  and  foolhardiness," 
Lady  Alicia  interrupted.  "I  cannot  imagine 
why  you  keep  suggesting  I  could  ever  have 
dojie  such  a  disgraceful  thing — I  always  had 

far  too  much " 

147 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Given  the  same  circumstances,  you  would 
have  behaved  in  exactly  the  same  way/'  Mr. 
Wycherly  interrupted.  "My  dear  Lady  Alicia, 
you  know  you  would." 

"You  are  a  ridiculous  and  obstinate  man," 
said  Lady  Alicia;  "much  learning  hath  made 
you  mad,  and  you  know  nothing  whatever 
about  women." 

All  the  same  she  smiled,  and  she  left  her  hand 
in  Mr.  Wycherly 's.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to 
her  to  be  considered  capable  of  romance;  her 
life  had  been  so  safe  and  seemly  always,  a  little 
monotonous  and  commonplace,  perhaps,  but 
she  had  once  been  young. 

"I  don't  know  much,"  Mr.  Wycherly  an- 
swered humbly;  "but  surely  character  is  the 
same  in  man  or  woman,  and  given  a  certain 
character  a  certain  line  of  conduct  is  inevitable." 

"And  you  think  it  is  inevitable  that  I  should 
forgive  Margaret?" 

"Assuredly,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly. 

"As  I  said  before" — here  Lady  Alicia  thought 
fit  to  withdraw  her  hand — "you  are  an  ignorant 
man:   but  we  won't  quarrel.    Time  will  show 
whether  you  or  I  know  most  about  me." 
143 


Cupid  Abroad 

She  turned  to  walk  to  the  gate  where  her 
carriage  was  waiting.  He  helped  her  in  and 
shut  the  door  upon  her  in  absolute  silence. 
Then,  just  as  the  man  was  driving  off,  he  asked: 
"What  do  you  think  they  would  like  for  a 
wedding  present?" 

"Man,  you  are  incorrigible,"  exclaimed  Lady 
Alicia,  but  her  brow  was  smooth  and  her  eyes 
smiling. 

Mr.  Wycherly  stood  at  the  green  gate  for 
some  time,  lost  in  thought.  As  he  turned 
to  walk  up  the  path  to  the  house  he  said 
aloud:  "I  should  like  to  know  what  that 
young  man  has  done  that  he  should  be  sin- 
gled out  by  the  gods  for  such  supreme  good 
fortune." 

When  the  days  grew  long  once  more  Lady 
Alicia  came  back  to  the  "big  house,"  but  no 
fair-haired  Margaret  came  to  play  with  the 
little  boys. 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Montagu  of  his  tutor. 
"Why  doesn't  she  come?" 

"She  is  married,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly;  "she 
has  to  stay  with  her  husband." 

"When  I  marry,"  said  Montagu,  "I  shall 
149  • 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

marry  somebody  like  Margaret ;  then  she'll  stay 
with  me  and  I  shall  never  be  lonely." 

"When  you  marry,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  very 
seriously,  "take  care  of  just  one  thing.  Take 
care  that  she  is  kind." 

"I'd  like  her  to  be  beautiful,  too,"  Montagu 
said  eagerly,  "beautiful  and  tall,  like  Mar- 
garet." 

"I  hope  she  will  be  beautiful,  but  kindness 
comes  first,"  and  Mr.  Wycherly  spoke  with 
conviction,  as  one  who  knew. 

"How  can  one  tell  if  she  is  kind?"  Montagu 
asked. 

"Compare  her  with  your  aunt,  Montagu:  if 
she  stands  such  comparison,  she  is  all  your  best 
desires  need  seek." 

"I  will  remember,"  Montagu  said  solemnly, 
"kind  and  beautiful — but  the  kindness  must 
come  first.  I  wish  Margaret  hadn't  been  in 
such  a  hurry,  she  would  have  done  beautifully." 


150 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   SABBATH 

He  ordered  a'  things  late  and  air'; 

He  ordered  folk  to  stand  at  prayer 
(Although  I  cannae  just  mind  where 

He  gave  the  warnin'). 
An'  pit  pomatum  on  their  hair 

On  Sabbath  mornin'. 

R.  L.  S. 

THE  Sabbath  day  at  Burnhead  was  a  long, 
long  day.  A  day  wholly  given  up  to 
"the  public  and  private  exercises  of  God's 
worship." 

For  Montagu,  indeed,  the  shadow  of  the 
Sabbath  began  to  steal  over  the  horizon  as 
early  as  Friday  night:  and  it  was  only  when 
he  woke  on  Monday  morning  secure  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  first  day  of  the  week  was 
safely  passed,  that  life  assumed  again  its 
habitually  cheerful  aspect. 

Miss  Esperance  was  a  staunch  Presbyterian, 
and  belonged  to  the  strictest  sect  of  the  so- 
called  Free  Kirk.  Therefore  did  she  consider 
151 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

it  her  duty  to  take  Montagu  twice  to  church  in 
addition  to  superintending  his  instruction  in 
Bible  history  and  the  shorter  catechism. 

Montagu  liked  the  scripture  lessons  well 
enough  and  found  it  no  hardship  to  read  the 
Bible  aloud  to  his  aunt  for  hours  at  a  time; 
but  nearly  four  hours'  church  with  only  the 
blessed  interval  of  dinner  in  between  was  a 
heavy  discipline  for  even  a  naturally  quiet 
small  boy,  and  sometimes  Montagu  was,  in- 
wardly, very  rebellious. 

Mr.  Wycherly  begged  him  off  the  afternoon 
service  as  often  as  he  could  as  a  companion  for 
Edmund,  volunteering  to  look  after  both  chil- 
dren so  that  Robina,  as  well  as  Elsa,  could  at- 
tend church.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  an  Episco- 
palian, and  as  there  was  no  " English"  church 
within  walking  distance,  he  said  he  read  the 
service  to  himself  every  Sunday  morning. 

When  Edmund  was  four  years  old,  Miss 
Esperance  decided  that  it  was  time  he,  too, 
should  share  the  benefit  of  the  Reverend 
Peter  Gloag's  ministrations.  Edmund  appeared 
pleased  at  the  suggestion,  for  it  was,  like  his 
knickerbockers,  to  a  certain  extent  an  acknowl- 
152 


The  Sabbath 

edgment  that  he  had  arrived  at  boy's  estate. 
Montagu  went  to  church,  and  why  not  he?  It 
was  evidently  the  correct  thing  to  do,  and 
although  he  could  not  remember  to  have  seen 
his  brother  particularly  uplifted  by  his  privi- 
leges in  that  respect,  nobody  else  seemed  much 
exhilarated  either.  Hitherto,  he  had  spent  his 
Sunday  mornings  largely  in  the  society  of  Mr. 
Wycherly,  who,  as  all  toys  were  locked  up  in 
a  tall  cupboard  on  Saturday  night,  connived 
at  all  sorts  of  queer  games,  invented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  by  the  ingenious  Edmund. 

"I'm  goin'  to  kirk!  I'm  goin'  to  kirk!"  Ed- 
mund chanted  gaily  on  the  appointed  day. 

He  wore  a  new  white  sailor  suit  with  pockets, 
and  in  one  pocket  was  a  penny  to  "pirle"  in 
the  plate :  in  the  other  a  wee  packet  of  Wother- 
spoon's  peppermints  for  refreshment  during 
the  sermon.  His  curly  hair  was  brushed  till 
it  shone  like  the  brass  knocker  on  the  front 
door  when  Elsa  had  newly  cleaned  it,  and  his 
round,  rosy  face  was  framed  by  a  large  new 
sailor  hat  that  looked  like  a  substantial  sort  of 
halo.  White  socks  and  neat  black  shoes  with 
straps  completed  Edmund's  toilet,  and  his  aunt 
153 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

thought  that  never  yet  had  the  Bethune  family 
possessed  a  worthier  scion. 

Mr.  Wycherly  assisted  to  direct  Edmund's  fat, 
pink  fingers  into  a  tight,  white  cotton  glove,  and 
stood  at  the  green  gate  watching  the  depart- 
ure of  Miss  Esperance  and  her  great-nephews, 
till  the  small  black  figure,  with  a  little  white 
sailor  on  either  side,  had  vanished  from  his 
view. 

He  marvelled  greatly  at  the  temerity  of  Miss 
Esperance  in  taking  Edmund  to  church  at  this 
tender  age,  though  it  was  not  the  age  that  mat- 
tered so  much  as  Edmund.  What  Miss  Esper- 
ance called  the  " Bethune  temperament"  was 
very  marked  in  that  sunny-haired  small  boy, 
and  it  was  apt  to  manifest  itself  unexpectedly, 
wholly  regardless  of  time  or  place. 

The  house  seemed  queerly  quiet  and  deserted 
as  Mr.  Wycherly  returned  to  his  room.  Mause 
followed  him  and  thrust  a  cold,  wet  nose  into 
his  hand,  looking  up  at  him  from  under  her 
tangled  hair  with  puzzled,  pleading  eyes. 

"Poor  old  lady,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "you 
are  lonely,  too,  are  you?    We'll  go  for  a  little 
walk  when  the  bell  stops." 
154 


The  Sabbath 

The  church  was  a  bare,  white-washed,  barn- 
like  edifice,  where  none  of  the  windows  were 
ever  opened,  and  the  unchanged  air  was  always 
redolent  of  hair-oil  and  strong  peppermint. 

Edmund  smiled  and  nodded  at  his  friends  as 
he  pattered  up  the  aisle  to  his  aunt's  pew,  and 
when  Andrew  Mowat,  the  precentor,  looking 
unwontedly  stern  and  unapproachable,  took  his 
seat  under  the  pulpit,  the  little  boy  wondered 
what  could  have  annoyed  him  that  he  looked 
so  cross.  On  week-days  Andrew,  who  kept  the 
little  grocer's  shop  hi  the  village,  was  the  most 
sociable  and  friendly  of  creatures,  and  always 
bestowed  "a  twa-three  acid-drops"  on  the  little 
boys  when  they  went  with  Robina  to  his  shop. 

But  to-day  Andrew  was  far  removed  from 
worldly  cares  or  enjoyments,  and  Edmund  lis- 
tened to  him  in  awed  astonishment  as  he 
wailed  out  the  tune  of  the  first  psalm,  "My 
heart  not  haughty  is,  0  Lord,"  to  be  gradually 
taken  up  more  or  less  tunefully  by  the  whole 
congregation. 

For  the  first  half-hour  of  service  Edmund 
behaved  beautifully.  He  held  a  large  Bible 
open  upside  down,  with  white  cotton  fingers 
155 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

spread  well  out  over  the  back.  He  hummed 
the  tune  diligently  and  not  too  loud  during  the 
first  psalm,  and  stood  quite  moderately  still 
during  the  first  long  prayers. 

It  was  not  until  the  minister  said:  "Let  us 
read  in  God's  word  from  the  fifteenth  chapter 
of  the  Book  of  Kings,  beginning  at  the  fifth 
verse/'  that  the  troubles  of  Miss  Esperance 
really  began. 

At  the  announcement  of  the  chapter  to  be 
read,  there  was  an  instantaneous  fluttering  and 
turning  over  of  leaves  among  the  congregation 
to  find  their  places,  and  Edmund,  zealous  to  be 
no  whit  behind  the  rest  in  this  pious  exercise, 
fluttered  the  leaves  of  his  Bible  violently  to  and 
fro  for  some  time  after  every  one  else  had 
settled  into  seemly  silence  to  follow  the  reading. 
Such  a  noisy  rustling  did  he  make  that  several 
of  the  congregation  raised  their  heads  and 
glanced  disapprovingly  in  the  direction  of  Miss 
Bethune's  pew.  That  gentle  lady  laid  a  de- 
taining hand  over  Edmund's  Bible  to  close  it, 
but  he  pulled  it  violently  away  from  her  with 
both  hands,  opened  it  again,  and  held  it  os- 
tentatiously against  his  nose,  leaning  forward 
156 


The  Sabbath 

to  look  over  the  top  at  Montagu,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  his  aunt. 

Then  to  the  horror  of  Miss  Esperance,  he 
began  to  imitate  the  minister;  joining  in  the 
reading  wherever  the  oft-repeated  "And  the 
rest  of  the  acts  of,"  whoever  it  happened  to 
be,  "are  they  not  written,"  etc.,  in  low  but 
perfectly  audible  tones.  Edmund  evidently 
looked  upon  the  phrase  as  a  sort  of  chorus, 
waited  for  it,  seized  upon  it,  and  joined  in  it 
gleefully,  holding  his  Bible  at  arm's  length  as 
though  he  were  singing  at  a  concert. 

Poor  Miss  Esperance  turned  crimson  and 
bent  over  the  little  boy,  whispering,  "You 
must  be  perfectly  quiet,  my  dear,  you  must  not 
say  a  single  word." 

Edmund,  still  holding  his  Bible  stiffly  out  in 
front  of  him,  looked  reproachfully  at  his  aunt 
and  was  quiet  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  came 
"and  the  rest  of  the  acts  of  Pekah  and  all  that 
he  did,"  which  was  too  many  for  him.  The 
name  was  attractive :  ' '  Pekah !  Pekah !  Pekah ! ' ' 
he  whispered,  then  faster:  "Pekah,  Pekah, 
Pekah,  Pekah,  Pekah,  Pekah,"  exactly  as  he 
was  wont  to  repeat  "Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck 
157 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

of  pickled  peppers,"  which  the  minister's  wife 
herself  had  taught  him. 

His  aunt  laid  a  firm  hand  over  his  mouth  and 
looked  at  him  with  all  the  severity  her  sweet 
old  face  could  achieve.  He  realised  that  she 
was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  set  down  his 
Bible  on  the  book-board  in  front  of  him  with  an 
angry  thump,  at  the  same  time  leaning  forward 
to  frown  reprovingly  at  Montagu. 

"When  will  he  stop?"  he  whispered  to  his 
aunt,  pointing  a  scornful  finger  at  the  minister, 
"he's  making  far  more  noise  nor  me." 

"Hush,"  murmured  Miss  Esperance  again. 
For  three  minutes  he  was  comparatively  quiet, 
then  it  occurred  to  him  to  take  off  his  gloves. 
This  he  achieved  by  holding  the  end  of  each 
cotton  finger  in  his  teeth  and  pulling  violently. 
Then  he  blew  into  each  one,  as  he  had  seen  his 
aunt  do  with  hers,  finally  squeezing  them  into 
a  tight  ball  and  cramming  them  into  the  tiny 
pocket  of  his  blouse. 

"Pocket"  instantly  suggested  the  pockets  of 

his  trousers.   His  penny  had  been  disposed  of  on 

entrance,  'twas  but  a  fleeting  joy.    But  the 

packet  of  Wotherspoon's  sweeties  remained. 

158 


The  Sabbath 

The  minister  had  now  engaged  in  prayer,  the 
congregation  was  standing  up;  Edmund's  do- 
ings were  comparatively  inconspicuous,  and 
Miss  Esperance  permitted  her  thoughts  to  soar 
heavenward  once  more.  Edmund  arranged  the 
contents  of  his  packet  in  a  neat  square  on  the 
top  of  his  Bible  on  the  book-board  in  front  of 
him,  and  proceeded  to  taste  several  of  the  little 
white  comfits,  putting  each  one  back  in  its 
place  wet  and  sticky,  when  he  had  savoured  its 
sweetness  for  a  minute  or  two.  By  accident  he 
knocked  one  of  the  unsucked  sweeties  off  the 
Bible,  and  it  rolled  away  gaily  under  the  seat. 
In  a  moment  Edmund  had  dived  after  it.  He 
squeezed  behind  his  aunt  and  could  not  resist 
giving  one  of  Montagu's  legs  a  sharp  pinch  as 
he  beheld  those  members  and  nothing  more 
from  his  somewhat  lowly  and  darksome  posi- 
tion. Montagu  leapt  into  the  air  with  a  scarcely 
suppressed  yelp,  that  startled  more  than  Miss 
Esperance,  who,  at  the  same  moment,  felt  an 
unwonted  something  shoving  against  her  legs. 
She  feared  that  some  dog  had  got  into  the  pew, 
and  opened  her  eyes  only  to  find  that  one  great- 
nephew  had  disappeared  from  her  side  and  was 
159 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

squirming  under  the  seat.  She  also  beheld  the 
neatly  arranged  rows  of  sweeties  on  the  top  of 
the  Bible. 

It  took  but  a  moment  to  sweep  these  into  the 
satin  bag  she  always  carried,  but  it  took  con- 
siderably longer  to  restore  Edmund  to  an  up- 
right position,  and  when  this  was  done,  his  face 
was  streaked  with  dust  and  his  small,  hot 
hands  were  black. 

Edmund  lolled;  Edmund  fidgeted;  Edmund 
even  infected  Montagu  so  that  he  fidgeted  too. 
Every  five  minutes  or  so  Edmund  whispered, 
"Can  we  go  home  now?"  till  at  last  peace 
descended  upon  poor  Miss  Esperance,  for  in  the 
middle  of  the  sermon  Edmund  fell  fast  asleep 
with  his  head  against  her  shoulder. 

Miss  Esperance  looked  quite  pale  and  ex- 
hausted as  she  took  her  place  at  early  dinner 
that  day,  but  Edmund  was  rosy  and  cheerful, 
and  greeted  Mr.  Wycherly  as  "Dearie"  with 
rapturous  affection  when  that  gentleman  took 
his  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  table.  He  always 
had  dinner  with  the  children  on  Sundays. 

At  first  the  small  boys  were  so  hungry  that 
very  little  was  said,  but  presently  when  pudding 
160 


The  Sabbath 

came  Mr.  Wycherly  asked:    "Well,  Edmund, 
how  did  you  get  on  at  church?" 

Edmund  laid  down  his  spoon:  "I'm  never 
going  back,"  he  said  decidedly,  "it  is  a  'bomna- 
ble  place." 

"Edmund!"  exclaimed  Miss  Esperance,  "how 
can  you  say  such  a  thing.  You,  unfortunately, 
did  not  behave  particularly  well,  though  I  for- 
give that,  as  it  was  the  first  time — but,  remem- 
ber, you  will  go  to  the  church  every  Sunday, 
and  you  will  learn  to  be  a  good  boy  when  you're 
there." 

"It  is,"  Edmund  repeated,  unconvinced,  "a 
'bomnable  place,  a  'bomnation  of  desolation 
place." 

The  phrase  had  occurred  several  times  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  minister's  sermon  before 
Edmund  fell  asleep,  and  commended  itself  to 
his  youthful  imagination  as  being  singularly 
forceful  and  expressive. 

Miss  Esperance  sighed.  She  really  felt  in- 
capable of  further  wrestling  with  Edmund  just 
then,  and  looked  appealingly  at  Mr.  Wycherly. 
But  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  refused  to  meet  her 
gaze. 

161 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"He,"  Edmund  suddenly  resumed,  pointing 
with  his  spoon  at  Mr.  Wycherly,  "  never  goes 
there.  He" — with  even  more  emphasis  and 
the  greatest  deliberation — "is  a — very — wise — 
man." 

Here  the  naughty  boy  wagged  his  curly  head 
and  spoke  with  such  barefaced  and  perfect 
mimicry  of  his  aunt,  that  again  catching  Mr. 
Wycherly's  eye,  she  burst  into  laughter,  in 
which  that  gentleman  was  thankful  to  join  her. 

"More  puddin',  please!"  Edmund  exclaimed, 
seizing  the  propitious  moment  to  hand  up  his 
plate. 

That  afternoon  neither  of  the  little  boys  ac- 
companied Miss  Esperance  to  church. 


162 


CHAPTER  XI 

LOAVES   AND   FISHES 

I  am  no  quaker  at  my  food.    I  confess  I  am  not  indifferent 
to  the  kinds  of  it. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

ON  the  following  Sabbath  day  Edmund  was 
a-missing  directly  it  was  time  to  get 
ready  for  church.  He  was  to  be  found  neither 
in  house  nor  garden,  and  Miss  Esperance  came 
to  the  sorrowful  conclusion  that  the  Bethune 
temperament  had  again  asserted  itself,  and 
that  Edmund  had,  of  deliberate  purpose, 
effaced  himself  so  that  he  should  not  be  made 
to  go  to  church.  She  was  not  on  this  occasion 
in  the  least  perturbed  by  the  fact  that  the 
small  boy  was  lost.  She  had  no  fears  as  to  his 
safety,  but  she  was  most  grievously  upset  by 
this  deliberate  flying  in  the  face  of  authority, 
and  set  off  for  church,  looking  very  grave  and 
almost  stern,  with  only  Montagu  in  attendance. 
Mr.  Wycherly  had  shut  himself  in  his  room 
during  the  hunt  for  Edmund.  He  had  a  ner- 
163 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

vous  dread  of  scenes  of  any  kind,  and  when 
either  of  the  little  boys  was  punished  he  suf- 
fered horribly.  He  fully  recognised  the  neces- 
sity for  occasional  correction,  especially  in  the 
case  of  a  small  boy  so  chock-full  of  original  sin 
as  Edmund.  But  none  the  less  did  he  undergo 
much  mental  anguish  on  the  occasions  when 
such  punishment  took  place.  He  could  not 
altogether  approve  of  certain  of  the  methods 
of  Miss  Esperance,  although  he  reverenced  her 
far  too  much  to  indulge  in  any  conscious 
criticism. 

Remote  had  always  been  marked  out  from 
other  houses  by  the  immense  tranquillity  of  its 
chief  inmates,  to  whom  fret  and  fuss  were  un- 
known. People  were  never  scolded  at  Remote, 
unless  by  Elsa,  when  she  was  quite  sure  Miss 
Esperance  was  out  of  hearing. 

When  Montagu  and  Edmund  were  naughty 
they  were  punished  by  Miss  Esperance,  who 
always,  and  manifestly,  suffered  much  more 
than  the  delinquents. 

A  favourite  mode  of  correction  in  days  when 
Miss  Esperance  was  young  was  the  substitution 
of  bread  and  water  for  whatever  meal  happened 
164 


Loaves  and  Fishes 

to  come  nearest  the  time  of  the  offence:  and 
for  the  little  boys  poignancy  was  added  to  this 
dismal  diet  by  the  knowledge  that  their  aunt 
tasted  nothing  else  at  her  own  meal  during  such 
times  of  abstinence  for  them.  From  such  pun- 
ishment, all  suspicion  of  revenge — which,  in  the 
chastened  one,  so  often  nullifies  the  desired  re- 
sult— was  entirely  eliminated;  and  the  children 
quite  understood  that  they  were  being  cor- 
rected for  the  good  of  their  souls,  and  not  be- 
cause their  aunt  required  a  vent  for  her  annoy- 
ance at  their  misdeeds. 

Sunday  dinner,  however — the  day  on  which 
by  his  own  request  Mr.  Wycherly  took  his  mid- 
day meal  with  Miss  Esperance  and  the  children 
— had  hitherto  been  exempt  from  any  such 
punitive  mortification  of  the  carnal  appetites. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Wycherly  had  imbued  it  with  a 
certain  Elizabethan  flavour  of  festivity  and 
cheerfulness,  and  here,  greatly  to  his  surprise, 
he  was  warmly  seconded  by  Elsa,  who  grudged 
no  extra  cooking  to  make  the  Sabbath-day 
dinner  particularly  appetising.  From  the  time 
that  Mr.  Wycherly  had  asserted  his  right  to 
throw  his  all  into  the  common  lot,  things  had 
165 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

been  easier  at  Remote,  and  old  Elsa  did  not 
forget  his  enthusiastic  eagerness  to  further  her 
endeavours  that  her  mistress  should  have  a 
peaceful  and  proper  breakfast. 

Therefore  when  it  became  the  established 
custom  for  Mr.  Wycherly  to  carve  the  joint  on 
Sundays,  she  was  ever  ready  to  fall  in  with  any 
small  plans  he  might  make  for  the  benefit  of 
the  little  boys. 

And  now  Edmund  had  been  naughty  on  the 
Sabbath,  and  Mr.  Wycherly  knew  what  to 
expect. 

Bread,  watered  by  his  tears,  for  Edmund. 
Bread,  seasoned  only  by  sorrowful  reflection, 
for  Miss  Esperance. 

Banishment  for  hungry  Edmund  if  he  cried 
aloud,  and  there  were  ducks  for  dinner,  large 
fat  ducks  sent  by  Lady  Alicia.  Mr.  Wycherly 
could  smell  the  stuffing  even  now.  Who  would 
believe  that  the  smell  of  sage  and  onions  could 
bear  so  mournful  a  message? 

The  Greek  characters  of  the  Phikbus  he  held 

in  his  hand  danced  before  his  eyes.    He  could 

not  give  his  mind  to  the  philosophy  of  beauty 

or  the  theory  of  pleasure.    The  doctrine  of 

166 


Loaves  and  Fishes 

sesthetical,  moral,  and  intellectual  harmonies, 
pleasing  as  it  was  to  him  on  ordinary  occasions, 
failed  to  hold  him  just  then,  when  all  his  mental 
vision  was  concentrated  on  a  chubby,  tearful 
figure  whose  misdeeds  would  debar  him  from 
duck  for  dinner. 

Mr.  Wycherly  laid  down  his  " Plato"  and 
began  to  pace  the  room  restlessly,  finally  taking 
up  his  stand  at  the  window  looking  out  on  the 
garden.  Where  was  that  boy?  Where  had  the 
monkey  hidden  himself?  He  was  not  with 
Mause,  for  Mr.  Wycherly  could  see  the  old  dog 
lying  in  a  patch  of  sunshine  on  the  little  plot  of 
grass. 

He  went  back  to  his  bookshelf  for  comfort: 
he  wanted  something  human,  something  warm 
and  faulty  and  sympathetic,  and  his  eye  lighted 
on  "Tristram  Shandy."  "Tristram  Shandy" 
was  tight  in  the  shelf — squeezed  in  between  the 
"Pha3do"  and  Hooker's  "Ecclesiastical  Polity" 
— Mr.  Wycherly  was  nervous  and  agitated,  and 
he  must  have  pulled  it  out  clumsily,  for  it  fell 
to  the  ground  with  a  thump. 

As  he  stooped  to  recover  it  he  caught  sight 
of  a  plump  brown  leg  protruding  from  beneath 
167 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

his  sofa.  He  went  down  on  his  knees  to  look 
more  closely,  and  there,  cuddled  up  under  the 
sofa,  his  curly  head  pillowed  on  his  arm,  lay 
Edmund,  fast  asleep.  Edmund  possessed  a 
Wellingtonian  capacity  for  falling  asleep  when- 
ever he  kept  still.  He  had  hidden  under  the 
sofa  in  Mr.  Wycherly 's  room  just  before  that 
gentleman  took  refuge  there  from  the  grieved 
annoyance  of  Miss  Esperance  at  her  grand- 
nephew's  defection.  Mr.  Wycherly  had  shut  his 
door,  and  no  one  dreamt  of  disturbing  him  to 
look  there  for  the  missing  one. 

Here  was  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish! 

Although  Mr.  Wycherly  knew  that  Miss 
Esperance  would  exonerate  him  from  any 
actual  participation  in  Edmund's  truancy,  he 
was  assuredly  accessory  after  the  fact,  and 
what  was  to  be  done? 

"I  hope  he  won't  hit  his  head  when  he  wakes 
up,"  Mr.  Wycherly  thought  concernedly. 
"What  a  beautiful  child  he  is!"  and  he  knelt  on 
where  he  was  gazing  admiringly  at  the  slumber- 
ing cupid. 

Stronger  and  stronger  grew  the  savour  of  sage 
and  onions  throughout  the  little  house.  It 
168 


Loaves  and  Fishes 

penetrated  even  to  Mause  in  the  garden,  and 
she  arose  from  her  patch  of  sunshine  and  sniffed 
inquisitively. 

Mr.  Wycherly  grew  stiff  with  kneeling,  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  At  the  same  moment  Edmund 
rolled  over  and  hit  his  leg  against  the  edge  of  the 
sofa.  It  woke  him,  and  the  instant  Edmund 
awoke  he  was  wide  awake.  "  Dearie,  are  you 
zere?"  he  demanded.  He  could  see  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  legs,  and  no  more,  from  where  he  was 
lying.  In  another  minute  he  was  sitting  on 
Mr.  Wycherly's  knee  while  that  elderly  scholar 
cudgelled  his  brains  for  some  form  of  remon- 
strance which  would  bring  home  to  this  very 
youthful  delinquent  the  impropriety  of  his 
conduct. 

" Dearie,"  Edmund  exclaimed  with  disarming 
sweetness,  "aren't  you  glad  I'm  here  wiv  you?" 
Here  he  rubbed  his  soft  face  against  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's. "What  a  good  smell!  isn't  it?  I'm 
so  hungry:  is  there  a  bikkit  about?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  steeled  his  heart:  "You  know, 
sonnie,"  he  said  very  gravely,  "that  you  ought 
not  to  be  here  at  all;  you  ought  to  be  with  your 
dear  aunt  in  church." 

169 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Edmund  looked  at  Mr.  Wycherly  in  re- 
proachful surprise.  "In  church?"  he  echoed, 
as  though  such  a  possibility  had  occurred  to 
him  for  the  first  time  that  morning. 

"In  church,"  Mr.  Wycherly  repeated.  "Your 
dear  aunt  expected  you  to  go  there  with  her 
and  with  Montagu,  and  she  was  very  sad  that 
she  had  to  go  without  you.  It  was  not  right  of 
you  to  hide,  sonnie.  It  was  neither  kind  nor 
polite  nor  straightforward." 

"You  doesn't  go,"  Edmund  argued,  staring 
gloomily  at  Mr.  Wycherly.  "Why  mus'  I?" 

"  You  must  go  because  your  dear  aunt  wishes 
it,"  Mr.  Wycherly  replied,  ignoring  the  first 
part  of  Edmund's  remark. 

"Would  you  go  if  see  wissed  it?" 

"I  would.  But  you  see,  for  me  it  is  different. 
I  was  brought  up  in  a  different  kind  of  church, 
and  I  am  no  longer  a  little  boy.  Miss  Esperance 
has  never  asked  me  to  go  to  church  with  her." 

"Why  hasn't  see  ast  you?" 

"Because,  as  I  tell  you,  I  was  brought  up  in 
a  different  church." 

"Why  can't  I  be  brought  up  in  your  church? 
Then  we  needn't  neither  of  us  never  go,"  Ed- 
170 


Loaves  and  Fishes 

mund  suggested,  smiling  radiantly,  as  though 
he  had  solved  the  difficulty. 

Mr.  Wycherly  sighed  deeply.  "But  I  did 
go,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  always  went  when  I 
was  a  little  boy,  every  Sunday,  and  afterward 
at  Oxford  I  went  nearly  every  day  as  well." 

Edmund's  face  fell.  He  desired  to  belong  to 
no  church  that  required  daily  attendance.  Mr. 
Wycherly's  looks  were  so  serious  that  the  little 
boy  began  to  be  anxious. 

"What  will  Aunt  Esp'ance  do,  do  you 
sink?" 

"I  fear  she  will  feel  compelled  to  punish 
you." 

"Bed?"  Edmund  inquired  uneasily. 

"No,  I  fear,  I  very  greatly  fear  it  will  be 
dinner " 

Mr.  Wycherly  felt  the  little  figure  stiffen  in 
his  arms,  as  without  a  word  Edmund  laid  his 
head  down  on  his  old  friend's  shoulder.  The 
child  lay  quite  still,  and  glancing  down  at  him 
Mr.  Wycherly  saw  how  the  red  mouth  drooped 
at  the  corners,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  screwed 
up  tight  to  keep  back  the  tears.  No  such  dread 
contingency  had  crossed  Edmund's  mind  till 
171 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

this  moment,  and  it  swept  over  him  with 
devastating  force.  Not  to  share  in  the  Sunday 
dinner,  that  cheerful  meal,  when  Mr.  Wycherly 
made  jokes  and  Aunt  Esperance  sat  beaming 
in  her  Sunday  silks;  when  hungry  little  boys 
were  never  refused  two,  even  three,  helpings  of 
everything.  It  was  a  dreadful  dispensation. 

Edmund  gave  a  short,  smothered  sob  and 
buried  his  face  in  Mr.  Wycherly's  neck. 

" Perhaps,"  the  grave  voice  went  on,  and 
Edmund  opened  one  tearful  eye,  as  though  the 
gloom  of  his  outlook  were  pierced  by  some  ray 
of  hope,  "perhaps  if  you  went  to  your  aunt  and 
told  her  how  sorry  you  are,  and  that  you  prom- 
ise on  your  honour  as  a  gentleman  you  will 
never  try  to  get  out  of  going  to  church  again — 
perhaps  she  might  forgive  you  this  once.  If 
you  can  tell  her  this  and  mean  it,  my  son,  every 
word,  I  think  that  she  may  be  induced  to  for- 
give you — just  this  once." 

The  green  gate  creaked,  there  was  a  rush  of 
feet  on  the  staircase  as  Montagu  made  straight 
for  Mr.  Wycherly's  room. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  exclaimed.    "I  thought 
you'd  be  here  somehow — what's  the  matter?" 
172 


Loaves  and  Fishes 

Mr.  Wycherly  put  Edmund  gently  from  off 
his  knee,  and  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Wait  here  with  Montagu,  sonnie,"  he  said. 
"I  will  see  Miss  Esperance  first,"  and  he  left 
the  room,  carefully  shutting  the  door  behind 
him. 

"Is  Aunt  Esp'ance  very  sorry?"  Edmund 
asked  anxiously.  He  did  not  ask  if  she  were 
angry,  for  that  she  had  never  been  with  him. 

"I  don't  think  she's  as  sorry  as  she  was  at 
first,"  Montagu  said  consolingly.  "We  met 
Mrs.  Gloag  as  we  were  coming  out  and  Aunt 
Esperance  told  how  you'd  hidden,  and  Mrs. 
Gloag  laughed,  and  after  that  I  don't  think  she 
was  so  sorry." 

The  door  was  opened  and  Mr.  Wycherly  came 
back.  "Go  to  your  aunt  in  her  room,  Ed- 
mund," he  said,  "and  remember  what  I  told 
you." 

Edmund  trotted  off  obediently. 

A  few  minutes  later  Robina  rang  the  dinner 
bell.  Edmund  and  his  aunt  descended  the 
curly  staircase  together,  hand  in  hand. 

"I  told  her  I  was  sorry,"  he  announced  to 
Mr.  Wycherly,  who  was  waiting  at  the  dining- 
173 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

room  door  that  Miss  Esperance  might  pass  in 
first.  "I'm  going  to  church  zis  afternoon. 
I'm  going,"  he  added  gleefully,  "becos'  zere's 
ducks  for  dinner." 


174 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   VILLAGE 

Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own. 

POPE. 


society  may  be  small  but  it  is  ex- 
tremely  select,"  Miss  Maggie  Moffat  used 
to  say  on  such  occasions  as  friends  from  the 
South-side  of  Edinburgh  used  to  visit  her. 

"It  is  what  we  have  always  sought  after," 
Miss  Jeanie,  her  sister,  would  chime  in.  "Qual- 
ity not  quantity,  and  nowhere  could  we  have 
found  superior  quality  if  we  had  gone  over  the 
whole  of  the  British  Isles  to  look  for  it." 

None  of  the  earlier  inhabitants  of  Burnhead 
ever  quite  fathomed  how  or  why  the  Misses  Mof- 
fat had  come  to  live  there.  The  fact  remained, 
however,  that  one  term  day  they  had  taken  a 
small  house  in  the  middle  of  the  village  street: 
a  house  that  had  been  empty  for  many  years. 
Its  original  name  was  "Rowan  Cottage,"  be- 
cause there  was  a  rowan  tree  in  the  back  garden, 
175 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

but  when  the  Misses  Moffat  took  it  they  per- 
suaded the  landlord  to  change  the  name  to 
"  Rowan  Lodge,"  the  only  lodge  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood save  that  which  guarded  the  entrance 
at  Lady  Alicia's  drive  gate.  The  name  was 
painted  on  the  front  of  the  house  in  large,  clear 
characters,  and  it  looked,  the  Misses  Moffat 
thought,  extremely  well  on  the  pink  note-paper 
with  scalloped  edges  which  they  affected  in 
their  correspondence. 

They  were  ladies  of  uncertain  age;  that  is  to 
say,  of  the  kind  of  age  to  which  direct  reference 
is  never  made. 

They  were  not  serenely  and  beautifully  old 
like  Miss  Esperance,  nor  sturdily  and  frankly 
middle-aged  like  Lady  Alicia,  and  by  no  stretch 
of  imagination  could  they  be  considered  young 
like  Bonnie  Margaret.  They  were,  as  they 
themselves  would  have  put  it,  "of  a  quite 
suitable  age  for  matrimony,  not  giddy  girls, 
you  understand,  but  nice,  sensible,  douce 
young  women." 

Miss  Jeanie  was  probably  not  more  than 
forty-five,  and  Miss  Maggie  some  six  years 
older.  They  were  both  moderately  tall,  mod- 
176 


The  Village 

erately  stout,  and  of  a  healthy,  homely  aspect 
which  did  not  challenge  observation.  Miss 
Jeanie,  indeed,  wore  a  curly  fringe,  and  on 
muddy  days  a  serge  golf-skirt  that  barely 
reached  her  substantial  ankles,  but  Miss  Mag- 
gie's mouse-coloured  hair  was  brushed  back  over 
a  cushion  and  displayed  every  inch  of  her  intel- 
lectual forehead.  Miss  Maggie  took  in  "Wise 
Words,"  and  had  literary  leanings  toward 
everything  of  an  improving  character. 

At  one  time  they  had  kept  a  "  fancy-work 
emporium"  on  the  South-side,  but  they  had 
not  been  dependent  upon  their  sales  of  Berlin 
wool  or  crochet  cotton,  and  as  the  emporium 
was  by  no  means  thronged  with  customers  it 
had  seemed  good  to  them  to  retire  from  business 
and  seek  in  the  country  that  seclusion  and 
select  society  which  their  genteel  souls  hun- 
gered after. 

They  were  sincerely  convinced  that  the 
emporium  of  the  past  could  not  in  any  way 
preclude  their  reception  into  such  society. 

"It  could  not  exactly  be  called  trade,  me 
dear,"  Miss  Maggie  argued,  "for  you  see  our 
clientele  was  so  exceedingly  select.  We  were 
177 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 
never  called  upon  to  serve  a  man  in  all  the 


years 

"Not  so  very  many  years,  Maggie,"  Miss 
Jeanie  would  interrupt. 

"During  the  time  our  residence  was  above 
the  emporium,"  Miss  Maggie  continued  calmly. 
"That  makes  a  very  great  difference.  Any- 
body can  come  into  an  ordinary  shop.  A 
stationer's  now — a  man  might  burst  into  a 
stationer's  at  any  minute  to  buy  envelopes  or 
elastic  bands,  or  a  bit  rubber:  but  no  man 
would  dream  of  entering  a — place  where  Berlin 
wools  and  fingering  and  sewing  silks  are  to  be 
had.  And  you  know,  me  dear,  it  always 
seems  to  me  that  so  long  as  no  strange  man  has 
had  the  opportunity  to  accost  one,  one's  delicacy 
cannot  be  said  to  have  suffered  in  any  way." 

"I've  heard,"  said  Miss  Jeanie,  with  a  little 
sigh,  "that  in  London  one  may  be  accosted  on 
the  public  street.  It  must  be  terrible  to  be 
accosted  by  a  strange  man.  I  think  I  should 
faint  away  at  his  feet  from  sheer  terror." 

"Indeed,"  replied  Miss  Maggie,  bridling.  "/ 
should  do  no  such  thing.  I  would  freeze  him 
with  a  glance." 

178 


The  Village 

So  far,  however,  neither  of  these  ladies  had 
been  called  upon  either  to  faint  or  to  freeze. 
Mankind  had  passed  them  by  in  decorous  silence. 
Neither  of  them  had  ever  been  accosted  by  any- 
one more  alarming  than  a  village  urchin,  and 
their  delicacy  and  their  gentility  remained  un- 
impaired. For  truly  they  were  vastly  genteel. 

The  real  and  chief  attractions  of  Burnhead 
had  been  that  the  rent  of  their  modest  residence 
was  very  small,  that  the  "big  house"  was  occu- 
pied by  "a  lady  of  title,"  and  that  there  were 
only  two  other  houses  in  the  village  having  any 
claim  to  be  the  abodes  of  gentility,  namely,  the 
Manse  and  Remote. 

"Surely,"  argued  the  Misses  Moffat,  "in  such 
a  small  place  the  gentry  will  be  friendly." 

And  so  indeed  it  proved,  for  if  the  Misses 
Moffat  were  genteel  they  were  also  the  kindest 
and  most  amiable  of  women,  and  had  they  but 
known  it,  they  might  have  searched  Scotland 
before  they  found  a  neighbourhood  where  such 
qualities  would  have  met  with  so  swift  a  recog- 
nition from  the  three  chief  ladies  in  the  place. 

There  were  many  who  pitied  the  minister 
because  his  wife  was  so  delicate.  There  were 
179 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

others,  mostly  outsiders,  who  pitied  Mrs.  Gloag 
because  her  husband  was  so  stern.  And  be- 
cause, although  she  had  done  her  best  to  take 
root  and  bring  forth  the  fruits  of  the  spirit  in 
the  humble  vineyard  where  her  husband  worked, 
there  was  always  something  alien  about  her 
which  most  of  that  small  community  mistrusted. 

For  Mrs.  Gloag  was  English. 

It  was  even  whispered  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  an  Episcopalian  clergyman. 

She  was  slender  and  pretty  and  very  frail  in 
health:  and  twenty-seven  years  of  Burnhead 
had  not  yet  cured  her  of  a  tendency  to  laugh 
when  things  amused  her.  And  things  amused 
Mrs.  Gloag  which  ought  to  have  shocked  a  right- 
minded  minister's  wife. 

In  early  days  her  chief  offence  had  been  that 
she  looked  younger  than  any  minister's  wife 
ought  to  have  looked,  that  she  played  with  her 
little  boys  as  though  she  were  a  child  herself; 
and  that  she  had  been  known  to  yawn  openly 
and  apparently  unashamed  during  the  minis- 
ter's sermons. 

Now  that  her  pretty,  wavy  hair  was  grey  and 
her  health  so  bad  that  she  seldom  came  to 
180 


The  Village 

church  more  than  once  on  a  Sabbath,  some- 
times not  at  all  for  weeks  together,  folks  felt 
that  this,  and  what  happened  to  their  third  boy, 
was  a  judgment  on  the  minister  for  having 
married  a  person  so  Englishey  and  irresponsible 
as  Mrs.  Gloag. 

There  was  no  question  whatever  that  the 
minister  adored  his  wife.  Whenever  his  eyes 
rested  upon  her,  his  whole  face  changed  and 
softened,  and  it  was  felt  to  be  almost  indecent 
that  a  minister  should  openly  manifest  any 
affection  whatsoever. 

Three  tall  sons  had  the  minister.  Two  of 
them  well-doing  young  men,  who  passed  exam- 
inations and  won  bursaries,  and  were  as  eco- 
nomical, hard-working  and  clear-headed  young 
Scotsmen  as  even  a  minister  could  wish  to  see. 
A  little  harsh,  perhaps,  and  dictatorial,  and 
argumentative;  a  little  fond  of  airing  their 
opinions  unasked,  a  little  apt  to  judge  character 
wholly  by  failure  or  success  in  practical  things; 
a  little  lacking  in  deference  to  older  people. 
Still  they  were  fine,  capable,  upstanding  young 
men  of  the  "get  up  and  git"  order  which  is  so 
admirable;  and  while  Mr.  Wycherly  would  go 
181 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

miles  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  either  of  them,  he 
was  the  very  first  to  acknowledge  their  many 
excellent  qualities. 

But  Curly,  the  youngest,  was  different.  He 
was  even  more  brilliant  intellectually  than  his 
brothers;  he  was  better  looking,  and  he  had 
much  of  his  mother's  charm.  When  he  was 
eighteen  he  won  a  scholarship  at  Balliol,  a 
regular  blue-ribbon  among  scholarships,  and 
the  minister  was  a  proud  man. 

Curly  did  well  at  Oxford,  he  lived  sparely, 
and  took  tutorships  in  the  vacations,  and  when 
he  came  home  the  Manse  was  a  merry  place. 
Mr.  Wycherly  was  very  fond  of  Curly,  for  he 
came  and  talked  about  Oxford,  and  he  would 
ask  the  older  scholar's  opinion  about  many 
things,  and  seemed  to  think  it  quite  worth 
having.  Now  his  brothers  considered  Mr. 
Wycherly  a  failure,  effete,  played  out,  vieux- 
jeu,  and  Mr.  Wycherly  knew  it. 

Curly  took  a  good  degree,  and  then  the  blow 
fell.  He  became  an  actor  and  "went  on  the 
stage." 

Had  he  turned  forger  or  robbed  a  church  the 
minister  could  hardly  have  been  more  upset. 
182 


The  Village 

Mr.  Gloag  hated  the  theatre  and  everything 
connected  with  it.  He  honestly  believed  it  to 
be  morally  degrading  and  soul-soiling  to  enter 
the  doors  of  any  such  place  of  amusement. 
That  there  could  ever,  under  any  circumstances, 
be  found  any  common  ground  or  bond  of  union, 
or  even  mutual  toleration,  between  the  followers 
of  this  degraded  and  degrading  calling  and  pro- 
fessing Christians,  he  could  not  conceive.  The 
minister  had  no  belief  in  toleration.  He  was 
fond  of  saying,  "  Those  that  are  not  for  us  are 
against  us";  and  that  "us"  might  by  any 
possibility  include  persons  he  designated  as 
"mountebanks"  never  for  one  moment  entered 
his  head. 

He  forbade  the  mention  of  Curly's  name,  de- 
claring that  now  he  had  only  two  sons.  Curly's 
brothers  said  very  little.  They  thought  Curly 
a  fool,  but,  after  all,  he  knew  his  own  business 
best. 

Mrs.  Gloag  said  nothing  at  all.  She  grew 
frailer  and  frailer,  and  her  pretty  eyes  wore 
always  a  strained  expression  as  though  they 
were  tired  with  watching  for  one  who  never 
came. 

183 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

She  did  not  attempt  to  soften  the  minister. 
He  was  always  gentle  to  her,  but  she  knew  him 
too  well  not  to  discern  when  argument  and 
supplication  were  alike  useless.  She  laughed 
less  often  now,  and  when  no  one  was  watching 
her  gentle  face  was  very  sad. 

If  anything,  however,  this  sore  trouble  made 
her  kinder  and  more  sympathetic  than  before, 
so  that  when  the  Misses  Moffat  took  sittings  in 
the  church  and  she,  in  her  capacity  of  minister's 
wife,  went  to  see  them,  she  realised  at  once  how 
anxious  and  timid  and  kind  and  harmless  they 
were;  and  most  of  all  how  they  hungered  to 
be  admitted  to  the  inner  circle  of  the  "select." 

She  asked  Miss  Esperance  to  go  and  see  them, 
and  Miss  Esperance  went;  and  she  asked  Lady 
Alicia  to  go  and  see  them,  and  Lady  Alicia  went. 

That  was  a  great,  a  never-to-be-forgotten  day 
for  the  Misses  Moffat  when  Lady  Alicia  walked 
over  from  the  "big  house"  to  call.  They  could 
have  wished  she  had  come  in  the  carriage;  it 
would  have  looked  so  fine  in  the  street  for  all 
the  world  to  see.  But  Lady  Alicia  was  ener- 
getic and  inclined  to  grow  stout,  and  she  liked 
to  walk  when  she  could.  There  she  sat  in  the 
184 


The  Village 

Misses  Moffat's  best  room,  talking  affably  in  her 
big  voice.  Everything  about  Lady  Alicia  was 
big  and  decided,  and  every  simplest  remark 
she  made  was  treasured  by  the  Misses  Moffat  as 
the  sayings  of  a  sibyl.  She  didn't  stay  long, 
but  she  praised  the  arrangements  of  Rowan 
Lodge,  from  the  window  curtains  to  the  choco- 
late-coloured railings  in  front  of  the  windows. 

When  she  got  up  to  go  they  watched  her 
anxiously.  She  had  her  silver  card-case  in  her 
hand.  Would  she  leave  a  card  or  not? 

Alas!  in  their  eagerness  to  be  polite  they 
both  accompanied  her  into  the  narrow  passage 
and  thence  into  the  street.  And  Lady  Alicia, 
being  rather  crowded,  did  not  see  the  Benares 
bowl  on  the  little  table  in  the  lobby,  wherein 
reposed  the  visiting  cards  of  Miss  Esperance 
and  Mrs.  Gloag,  and  completely  forgot  to  leave 
a  similar  memento  of  her  visit. 

This  was  a  great  blow  to  the  Misses  Moffat. 
Without  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a 
visiting  card  was  it  a  proper  call  or  not? 

Might  they  return  it?  Or  was  it  only  an  act 
of  condescension  on  Lady  Alicia's  part  and  not 
an  act  of  friendship? 

185 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Miss  Jeanie  sought  vainly  in  the  pages  of  a 
bound  volume  of  the  "  Lady's  Home  Compan- 
ion" for  guidance  on  this  intricate  point  of 
etiquette.  But  although  there  was  a  whole 
long  article  on  "calls"  in  that  useful  work,  with 
minute  directions  as  to  the  most  desirable  de- 
portment at  afternoon  tea,  there  was  no  guid- 
ance as  to  what  course  should  be  taken  by 
two  genteel  unmarried  females  when  visited 
by  an  earl's  daughter,  who  called  at  three  in 
the  afternoon  and  omitted  to  leave  a  card 
at  all. 

"It's  most  annoying!"  Miss  Jeanie  exclaimed, 
tapping  the  "Lady's  Home  Companion"  with 
her  finger.  "There's  any  amount  about  leav- 
ing cards,  but  not  one  word  about  when  they're 
not  left.  Listen  to  this:  'Should  there  be  only 
a  lady,  you  would  merely  leave  one  of  your 
husband's.'  Perhaps  Lady  Alicia  Carruthers 
just  didn't  leave  one  of  his  because  he's  dead, 
poor  man.  Then  further  on  it  says:  'When 
calling  on  a  stranger  on  any  business  matter, 
your  card  should  be  sent  in  by  the  servant, 
who  will  ascertain  if  it  is  convenient  for  her 
mistress  to  see  you.'  Now  she  most  certainly 
186 


The  Village 

did  not  call  on  business.  What  are  we  to 
think,  Maggie?" 

Miss  Maggie  puckered  her  intellectual  fore- 
head in  deep  consideration  of  the  weighty  mat- 
ter. Apparently  she  reached  no  conclusion,  for 
after  a  minute  she  said:  "I'm  thinking,  Jeanie, 
that  our  best  course  would  be  to  ask  Miss 
Esperance  Bethune.  She  seems  very  intimate 
with  Lady  Alicia  Carruthers,  and  may  know 
her  ways,  and  I'm  quite  sure  she'll  think  none 
the  worse  of  us  for  asking.  She  left  a  card,  if 
you  remember." 

"You  might  just  put  on  your  bonnet  and  go 
now,  Maggie.  It  would  set  our  minds  at  rest. 
I  wish  she  had  left  a  card,  though;  it  would 
have  looked  fine  on  the  table  in  the  lobby,  and 
you  mind  the  Macdougals  are  coming  out  to 
their  tea  on  Saturday." 

Miss  Moffat  sought  Miss  Esperance  then  and 
there,  and  that  gentle  little  lady  gave  it  as  her 
opinion  that  the  omission  of  the  card  was  mere 
forgetfulness  on  Lady  Alicia's  part  and  by  no 
means  intentional.  Whereupon  Miss  Maggie 
departed  much  comforted. 

Miss  Esperance  happened  to  be  dining  with 
187 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Lady  Alicia  that  very  evening  and  told  her 
how  much  soul-searching  her  visit  had  occa- 
sioned the  Misses  Moffat. 

" Bless  me!"  good-natured  Lady  Alicia  ex- 
claimed. "The  poor  bodies!  I'd  have  left  a 
whole  card-case  of  cards  if  I'd  remembered. 
But  they  fluttered  round  me  so  as  I  was  leaving, 
and  were  so  civil  and  obliging  and  desperately 
fussy,  that  I  got  myself  out  as  quickly  as  ever 
I  could." 

"  You'd  make  them  very  happy  if  you'd 
leave  a  card  even  yet,  any  time  you  are  pass- 
ing," Miss  Esperance  suggested.  "They  are 
such  good,  meek  creatures." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  next  day,  when  Lady 
Alicia  went  out  to  drive,  the  carriage  stopped 
at  Rowan  Lodge,  and  she,  in  a  voice  that  could 
be  heard  all  down  the  street,  instructed  her 
footman  to  leave  cards,  explaining  that  she  had 
forgotten  to  leave  them  the  day  before. 

The  front  door  of  Rowan  Lodge  was  sepa- 
rated from  the  footpath  by  about  three  feet  of 
gravel,  and  the  Misses  Moffat,  seated  behind 
the  curtains  that  Lady  Alicia  had  admired, 
heard  her  every  word. 

188 


The  Village 

"One  for  each  of  us!"  exclaimed  Miss  Jeanie 
rapturously,  gloating  over  the  little  white  cards, 
for  them  so  packed  with  meaning.  "I  hope 
it's  not  wicked,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  rather 
glad  poor  Mr.  Carruthers  is  no  more — though 
it  would  have  been  pleasant  enough  to  have 
him  calling,  too — for  then,  if  that  book  is  right, 
we  should  only  have  had  his  card,  and  he  hadn't 
a  title  or  anything." 

"He  was  an  advocate,  I'm  told,"  Miss  Maggie 
said  solemnly,  "but  whether  they  put  that  on 
cards  I'm  not  very  sure,  never  having  been 
called  upon  by  anyone  connected  with  the  legal 
profession  except  yon  wee  auctioneer,  who 
came  about  the  fittings  at  the  South-side, 
and  I  very  much  doubt  if  he  had  a  card 
at  all." 

"The  Macdougals  '11  rather  open  their  eyes 
when  they  see  these,"  Miss  Jeanie  chuckled. 
"I'll  put  one  on  each  side  the  Benares  bowl 
in  the  lobby,  lest  they  shouldn't  look  inside. 
I  hope  it'll  be  a  nice  bright  day,  for  it's  a  wee 
thing  dark  there  when  the  door's  shut,  and  if 
it's  left  open  there's  a  terrible  draught,  and 
they  might  blow  away." 
189 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"If  it's  a  mirk  day,"  Miss  Maggie  said  firmly, 
"I'll  stand  them  up  against  the  parlour  clock, 
just  careless-like.  You  may  depend  the  Mac- 
dougal's  will  spy  them  out." 


190 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  MEETING 

We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

WHEN  Edmund  was  five  years  old  Mr. 
Wycherly  expressed  his  readiness  to 
teach  him  all  he  was  teaching  Montagu.  He 
took  infinite  pains  to  do  so,  but  Edmund's 
presence  was  found  to  be  so  provocative  of  dis- 
peace  in  the  quiet  study  upstairs,  and  so 
effectually  hindered  his  brother's  progress, 
while  his  own  was  of  the  slowest,  that  Miss 
Esperance  took  the  matter  into  her  own  hands 
and  sent  her  younger  nephew  to  be  instructed 
by  the  Reverend  Peter  Gloag,  who  seasoned  his 
instruction  with  the  tawse,  and  was  altogether 
more  fitted  to  cope  with  the  average  boy's 
vagaries  than  the  gentle,  dreamy  Mr.  Wycherly. 
191 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Edmund  was  rather  afraid  of  the  minister.  His 
hand  was  heavy,  and  he  was  singularly  awake 
to  the  devices  by  means  of  which  small  boys 
seek  to  evade  their  scholastic  duties.  Never- 
theless, the  child  liked  him,  for  he  could  unbend 
on  occasion  and  was  an  excellent  hand  at  mar- 
bles. Moreover,  he  had  a  sense  of  humour,  and 
like  so  many  of  the  Scottish  Calvinists  of  that 
time,  managed  to  keep  his  denunciations  of 
abstract  sins  quite  separate  from  his  judgment 
of  the  sinner.  In  the  pulpit  he  was  a  terror  to 
evil-doers.  When  tackled  upon  questions  of 
doctrine,  he  laid  down  the  law  with  a  vigour 
and  determination  that  left  his  opponent  with 
the  impression  that  never  was  there  such  a 
hard  and  inflexible  man:  but  when  it  came  to 
deeds,  when  it  was  a  question  of  giving  another 
chance  to  a  ne'er-do-weel,  or  the  punishment 
to  be  meted  out  to  some  young  ragamuffin 
caught  stealing  apples  or  breaking  windows, 
the  sinner  had  far  rather  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  minister  than  those  of  many  a  gentler 
spoken  man. 

In  spite  of  the  minister's  endeavours,  how- 
ever, Edmund  was  still  laboriously  writing  sen- 
192 


A  Meeting 

tences  to  the  effect  that  "Tis  education  forms 
the  mind"  at  an  age  when  Montagu  had  begun 
to  write  Latin  verses  and  to  read  Xenophon. 

"I  hate  sitting  on  a  chair  and  hearing  things," 
Edmund  would  say.  ' '  I  want  to  be  doing  them. 
I  want  more  room  than  there  is  in  Auntie's 
house,  or  the  Manse.  I  hate  things  over  my 
head  'cept  the  sky." 

One  day  Miss  Esperance  drove  both  boys  to 
Leith,  and  left  them  to  play  on  the  beach  while 
she  went  to  see  an  old  friend.  In  a  minute 
Edmund  had  off  his  shoes  and  socks,  and  in 
spite  of  the  jagged  pebbles,  that  hurt  his  un- 
accustomed feet  so  cruelly,  went  down  to  the 
water's  edge  and  in  up  to  his  knees,  then  turn- 
ing to  the  more  timid  Montagu,  who  still  stood 
dubiously  upon  the  brink,  cried  joyously,  "  This 
is  what  I've  always  been  wanting':  there's 
plenty  of  room  out  there." 

The  same  evening  he  climbed  on  to  Mr. 
Wycherly's  knee  demanding,  "How  can  I  get 
to  be  a  sailor  like  my  daddie  was?" 

"You  go  into  the  Navy." 

"How  do  I  go?    What  way?    Where's  the 
Navy?    Is  it  a  town?" 
193 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"No,  it's  an  institution,  a  service 

"Like  the  poorhouse?"  Edmund  interrupted, 
in  less  enthusiastic  tones. 

"Oh,  dear,  no." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  the  little  boy  com- 
manded, whereupon  Mr.  Wycherly  obediently 
and  at  considerable  length  explained  the  con- 
stitution of  His  Majesty's  Navy,  and  Edmund 
never  once  interrupted. 

When  Mr.  Wycherly  had  finished,  the  little 
boy  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then  asked  earn- 
estly, "How  soon  can  I  go?" 

"Let  me  see,  you're  nearly  eight  now;  it 
might  be  managed  in  about  three  years.  You 
will  need  to  read  well,  and  write  well,  and  be 
able  to  do  many  kinds  of  sums,  and  be  very 
obedient." 

"I  could  do  all  that,"  Edmund  said  de- 
cidedly, and  in  the  end,  to  the  surprise  of  every 
one  concerned,  he  did. 

At  first  it  grieved  Mr.  Wycherly  that  any  one 
should  teach  either  of  the  little  boys  except 
himself.  He  grudged  Edmund  to  the  minister, 
even  while  he  knew  that  the  minister  was  far 
more  fitted  to  teach  him  than  he  was  himself. 
194 


A  Meeting 

His  only  consolation  was  that,  as  Edmund  dis- 
liked lessons  so  much,  there  would  have  been 
some  danger  of  his  extending  his  dislike  to  the 
giver  of  them,  and  that  Mr.  Wycherly  could 
not  have  borne. 

It  happened  that  soon  after  Edmund  first 
went  for  lessons  to  the  Manse  whooping-cough 
broke  out  among  the  village  children.  It  was 
a  bad  kind,  and  Miss  Esperance  was  very 
anxious  that  neither  Montagu  nor  Edmund 
should  take  it.  Thus  it  came  about  that  one 
Sunday,  one  particularly  fine  Sunday  at  the 
beginning  of  June,  she  decided  that  she  would 
not  take  them  to  church  with  her  for  fear  of 
infection.  The  doctor  himself  had  suggested 
this  only  the  day  before,  and  after  a  sleepless 
night,  in  which  she  had  prayed  for  guidance, 
Miss  Esperance  decided  that  the  doctor  was 
probably  right  and  that  she  should  run  no  risks 
for  them,  whatever  she  might  do  for  herself. 
Mr.  Wycherly  offered  to  look  after  them  both 
during  her  absence,  and  it  was  characteristic  of 
Miss  Esperance  that,  although  she  had  her  mis- 
givings, she  made  no  suggestions  as  to  how 
their  time  should  be  spent  in  her  absence. 
195 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

That  would  have  been  to  reflect  upon  Mr. 
Wycherly. 

The  little  boys  will  always  remember  that 
Sunday,  not  only  because  they  did  not  go  to 
church,  and  did  play  in  a  field  near  the  Manse, 
but  because  of  something  that  happened. 

When  the  church  bells  had  stopped  and  the 
village  street  was  deserted,  Mr.  Wycherly,  the 
two  little  boys  and  Mause  went  to  play  in  a  field 
that  adjoined  the  Manse.  To  get  to  this  field, 
which  was  rich  in  buttercups  and  hedge  parsley, 
and  was  bordered  by  ash  trees  giving  a  pleasant 
shade,  you  turned  down  a  lane,  which  was  also 
a  short  cut  to  the  station,  lying  a  mile  or  so 
south  of  the  village.  The  Manse  was  at  one 
end  of  the  lane,  the  main  street  of  the  village 
at  the  other:  the  gate  leading  into  the  field 
about  half-way  down.  As  the  little  boys 
neared  it  they  saw  a  stranger  coming  from  the 
opposite  direction. 

It  was  unusual  to  meet  anybody  in  that  lane, 
especially  at  this  time  of  day  on  the  Sabbath, 
and  the  children  waited  at  the  gate  to  see  the 
stranger  pass.  Mr.  Wycherly,  whose  long- 
distance sight  was  failing  a  little,  put  up  his 
196 


A  Meeting 

eye-glasses  lest  he  might  know  the  stranger  and 
pass  him  by  without  greeting,  as  he  was  rather 
prone  to  do.  Hardly  had  he  placed  the  glasses 
on  his  nose  than  they  dropped  off  again,  and 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  he  hurried  for- 
ward, holding  out  both  his  hands,  which  the 
stranger  grasped  and  warmly  shook. 

He  was  a  tall  young  man,  with  very  large 
bright  eyes  and  an  abundance  of  curly  black 
hair,  worn  rather  longer  than  was  usual  at  that 
time. 

He  seized  Mr.  Wycherly  by  the  arm  and 
bore  him  up  the  lane  again,  talking  eagerly  the 
while. 

"I  must  see  her,"  the  little  boys  heard  him 
say.  "I  must  see  her  somehow,  and  I  daren't 
go  into  the  house,  for  he  has  forbidden  me. 
Could  you  tell  her?  Could  you  fetch  her?  Ill 
stay  with  the  youngsters.  Oh,  dear  old  friend, 
for  God's  sake  don't  frighten  her,  but  bring  her 
to  me  somehow.  She  isn't  in  church,  I  know, 
for  I  watched  every  one  go  in  from  behind  the 
hedge  in  the  churchyard.  I  was  coming  to  you 
in  any  case.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Wycherly  and  the  young  man  had  passed 
197 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

out  of  earshot.  Montagu  and  Edmund  looked 
at  one  another  with  large,  round  eyes,  and 
Mause  looked  after  Mr.  Wycherly  and  sniffed 
the  air  inquiringly. 

"Do  you  think  he's  a  relation?"  Edmund 
asked.  "Do  you  think  he's  come  to  stay  with 
us?" 

"He  can't  stay  with  us,"  Montagu  answered 
decidedly;  "there  isn't  any  room.  I  wish  he 
could,  though,"  he  added;  "he  looks  rather 
nice." 

A  sound  of  quick  footsteps  in  the  lane,  and 
the  stranger  was  back  again,  but  without  Mr. 
Wycherly. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "what  shall  we  play  at?" 

He  said  it  in  a  business-like  way,  and  Edmund 
did  the  stranger  the  honour  to  take  him  at  his 
word. 

"Can  you  be  a  tiger?"  he  demanded  ex- 
citedly, "and  we'll  hunt  you.  You  must  crawl 
in  the  grass,  and  crouch  in  the  ditch — it's  quite 
dry — and  bounce  out  at  us  and  growl,  not  too 
loud,  because  it's  the  Sabbath." 

Never  was  such  a  tiger;  so  fierce,  so  elusive, 
so  dashing,  so  unexpected.  This  man  threw 
198 


A  Meeting 

himself  into  his  part  at  once  and  required  no 
tedious  explanations.  The  intrepid  hunters 
had  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  blissful  excitement, 
and  the  tiger  had  rolled  over  dead  for  the  fifth 
time  when  he  suddenly  rose  to  his  feet,  went  to 
the  gate,  and  looked  up  the  lane  toward  the 
Manse. 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  coming  slowly  down  the 
lane,  and  a  lady  leant  upon  his  arm.  The 
quondam  tiger  brushed  some  grass  from  off  his 
clothes  and  turned  to  the  little  boys,  who  were 
following  him  eagerly.  ' '  Boys, ' '  he  said, ' ' we've 
had  a  good  play,  we'll  have  another  some 
day,  but  now  I  must  go  and  speak — to  my 
mother " 

He  went  down  the  lane  very  quickly  toward 
Mr.  Wycherly  and  the  lady. 

"Come,"  said  Montagu,  catching  Edmund  by 
the  hand,  "let's  come  away,"  and  the  two  little 
boys  trotted  off  up  the  lane  in  the  opposite 
direction;  and  they  never  looked  back. 

Mrs.  Gloag,  tremulous  and  very  pale,  leant 

heavily  on  Mr.  Wycherly's  arm  as  the  tall 

young  man  came  out  of  the  field  toward  her. 

Then  she  steadied  herself.    "Dear  friend,"  she 

199 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

said  very  softly,  "I  am  quite  strong.  Will  you 
leave  me  to  wait  for  my  boy?  I  would  like  to 
be  with  him  alone — once  more,  together — he 
and  I."  She  drew  her  hand  from  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly's  arm,  and  he  raised  his  hat  and  left  her. 
He  passed  the  stranger  and  hurried  after  the 
little  boys.  They  heard  him  coming  and 
slackened  their  pace:  but  they  never  looked 
round. 

They  had  turned  the  corner  when  Mr. 
Wycherly  joined  them,  and  separated  that  he 
might  walk  between  them  as  was  his  custom. 
He  laid  a  hand  on  each  soft  little  shoulder  and 
stopped.  "Boys,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
sounded  husky  and  broken.  "You  are  gen- 
tlemen— and  good  fellows — and  I'm  proud  of 
you." 

The  little  boys  were  silent.  This  that  had 
happened,  coming  so  close  upon  the  heels  of 
the  uproarious  tiger  game,  was  very  puzzling. 

Presently,  as  though  following  some  train  of 
thought,  Edmund  said:  "She  knew  him,  I  sup- 
pose. Will  our  mothers  know  us,  do  you  think, 
when  we  get  up  there?  Because,  you  see,  we 
shall  look  rather  different  from  when  they  saw 
200 


A  Meeting 

us  last.  Now  you,  Guardie,  dear,  you  hadn't 
white  hair  when  you  saw  your  mother  last,  had 
you?  You  were  quite  a  little  boy." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "in  fact,  I 
may  say  I  am  sure,  that  our  mothers  will  know 
us,  even  if  we  all  three  should  have  white  hair." 

"I  expect,"  Montagu  said  thoughtfully, 
"that  they're  waiting  just  like  we  waited  for  you 
round  the  corner;  they've  just  gone  on  first." 

"Just  gone  on,"  Edmund  echoed.  "I  wonder 
if  it  seems  long  to  them  till  we  come?" 

After  morning  service  when  the  minister 
turned  down  the  lane,  which  was  a  short  cut 
to  the  Manse,  he  found  Mr.  Wycherly  waiting 
for  him  outside  his  own  gate. 

As  a  rule  Mr.  Wycherly  was  rather  shy  and 
nervous  in  the  presence  of  the  minister,  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  this  usual  mental  per- 
turbation as  he  stopped  him  with  a  courteous 
gesture.  "Mr.  Gloag,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  and 
he  looked  the  minister  straight  in  the  eyes, 
"I  have  done  something  which  you  will  prob- 
ably disapprove  and  condemn.  Curly  has  been 
here,  and  I  went  to  the  Manse  and  told  Mrs. 
Gloag  that  he  was  here." 
201 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Did  he  dare  to  enter  my  house?"  asked  the 
minister,  and  he  glowered  at  Mr.  Wycherly 
from  under  his  heavy  brows. 

"I  think,"  that  gentleman  replied,  and  he 
met  the  minister's  keen  glance  with  one  that 
was  quite  equally  combative,  "that  he  would 
have  dared  anything  to  see  his  mother.  As  it 
happened  she  came  to  him.  And  I  want  to  spare 
her  the  exertion  of  telling  you  that  she  did  so." 

"Since  when,"  asked  the  minister,  looking  as 
though  he  would  greatly  like  to  annihilate  Mr. 
Wycherly;  "since  when  has  my  wife  needed  a 
go-between  to  spare  her  the  necessity  of  telling 
me  anything?" 

"Good  heavens,  sir!"  Mr.  Wycherly  ex- 
claimed, "can't  you  see  that  what  I  want  you 
to  realise  is  that  Mrs.  Gloag  is  very  ill — that 
whatever  you  may  feel  on  the  subject  of  Curly 's 
coming,  it  would  have  been  inhuman  to  pre- 
vent her  seeing  her  son — once  more,  whatever 
he  had  done." 

Even  as  Mr.  Wycherly  spoke  the  eyes  of  the 
two  men  that  a  moment  before  had  been  bright 
with  mutual  antagonism  changed.  The  min- 
ister's to  a  dumb  agony,  Mr.  Wycherly's  to  an 
202 


A  Meeting 

awe-struck  pity.  He  turned  and  walked  hastily 
away. 

Blindly  the  minister  opened  the  gate  and 
went  through  the  garden  into  his  own  house. 

His  wife  met  him  in  the  hall,  and  her  face,  he 
thought,  was  as  the  face  of  an  angel,  full  of  a 
soft  radiance  not  of  earth. 

"  Peter,"  she  said  in  her  soft  "Englishey" 
voice,  "God  has  been  good  to  me.  I  have  seen 
Curly,  and  he  is  not  changed.  I  know  it;  we 
may  not  like  what  he  has  done,  but  he  is  not 
changed.  He  is  good,  Peter;  he  is  our  own 
dear  good  boy  all  the  same.  He  didn't  come 
in  because  he  thought  you  wouldn't  like  it,  but 
I  had  a  long,  beautiful  talk  with  him  in  the 
lane.  I  felt  somehow  that  I  should  see  him — 
once  more." 

Again  the  ominous  phrase,  "Once  more." 

"Felicity,"  said  the  minister,  "you  have 
stood  much  longer  than  is  good  for  you,"  and 
he  picked  her  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to 
the  sofa  in  the  parlour. 

She  caught  him  round  the  neck  and  rubbed 
her  soft  cheek  against  his  hair.  "Why  are  you 
not  surprised — and  angry?"  she  asked  with  a 
203 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

little  nervous  laugh,  and  he  felt  how  her  whole 
body  was  trembling  in  his  arms. 

"Because  I  knew  already,"  said  the  minister; 
and  not  one  other  word  did  he  say  on  the  sub- 
ject that  day,  but  he  noticed  that  her  pretty 
eyes  had  lost  their  look  of  strained  expectancy 
and  watchfulness,  and  in  its  place  there  was 
an  expression  of  beautiful  serenity  and  almost 
joyous  content. 

Although  Edmund  went  to  the  Manse  for  his 
lessons,  he  was  faithful  always  to  the  matutinal 
service  of  biscuits  in  Mr.  Wycherly 's  room. 
He  wouldn't  have  missed  it  on  any  account. 
Two  mornings  after  their  encounter  with  the 
"tiger-man,"  as  they  always  called  him,  they 
sought  Mr.  Wycherly  after  breakfast  to  find 
him  looking  very  grave  and  sad.  He  gave 
them  their  biscuits  as  usual,  and  turning  to 
Edmund  said:  "You  must  not  go  to  the  Manse 
this  morning,  my  dear  boy.  There  is  great 
trouble  there.  We  have  all  lost  a  very  dear 
friend — Mrs.  Gloag."  Mr.  Wycherly  paused, 
for  he  could  not  speak.  The  little  boys  looked 
very  solemn,  then  Edmund  said  softly,  "I  sup- 
pose she  has  gone  on." 
204 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   PASTING 

O  Royal  and  radiant  soul, 
Thou  dost  return,  thine  influences  return 
Upon  thy  children  as  in  life,  and  death 
Turns  stingless! 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

Tl^HOOPING-COUGH  was  still  bad  in  the 
*  »  village  on  the  Sabbath  following  their 
famous  tiger-game,  and  again  Miss  Esperance 
did  not  take  her  great-nephews  to  church. 

Again,  moreover,  the  Sunday  was  memorable, 
not  so  much  because  they  did  not  attend  church, 
as  because  Mr.  Wycherly  did. 

The  little  boys  knew  there  had  been  a  funeral 
the  day  before.  Mr.  Wycherly  had  gone  to  it, 
and  their  aunt  had  sewn  a  black  band  upon  the 
sleeve  of  each  little  white  blouse.  They  felt 
solemn  and  important ;  and  for  once  they  would 
even  have  been  glad  to  go  to  church  in  order  to 
show  this  unusual  adornment.  When  they 
discovered  that  not  only  were  they  to  be  left  at 
205 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

home,  but  left  at  home  without  Mr.  Wycherly, 
such  immunity  was  shorn  of  all  its  more  pleas- 
ing attributes. 

They  were  sorry  about  Mrs.  Gloag,  with  the 
curious,  impersonal  sorrow  that  children  ex- 
perience in  considering  the  troubles  of  others. 
She  was  a  kind  lady,  and  they  liked  her.  She 
knew  many  rhymes  and  funny  stories,  and  was 
almost  as  good  a  playmate  as  that  unequalled 
tiger-man.  But  they  had  not  seen  her  often 
lately,  and  at  present  their  chief  concern  was 
with  the  unusual  and  uncomfortable  sense  of 
depression  that  seemed  in  some  subtle,  inde- 
finable fashion  to  separate  them  from  their 
aunt  and  Mr.  Wycherly. 

And  now,  having  gone  to  a  funeral  on  Satur- 
day, Mr.  Wycherly  was  going  to  church  on 
Sunday.  Why  was  Mr.  Wycherly  going  to 
church? 

That  was  the  question  that  grievously  exer- 
cised the  little  boys,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Wycherly 
himself  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  ex- 
plain his  reasons. 

There  was  the  protective  instinct,  the  feeling 
that  he  could  not  let  Miss  Esperance  go  alone, 
200 


A  Parting 

so  small  and  sad  and  solitary:  the  desire  to  do 
something  comforting :  an  equally  strong  desire 
to  show  his  affectionate  respect  for  Mrs.  Gloag, 
and  the  hope  that  perhaps  by  this  means  he 
might  to  some  small  extent  show  his  sympathy 
with  the  minister.  And  at  the  back  of  all  these 
mixed  motives  and  through  every  one  of  them 
there  sounded  the  voices  of  habit  and  tradition; 
voices  which  every  day  of  late  had  called  more 
and  more  imperatively  to  Mr.  Wycherly.  In 
the  old  days  it  had  been  a  matter  of  course  that 
he  should  take  part  in  any  public  ceremony; 
now,  in  spite  of  his  long  aloofness  from  any 
part  or  lot  in  the  lives  of  his  neighbours,  he  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  make  some  open  and 
public  demonstration  of  his  share  in  this  com- 
mon sorrow. 

When  he  first  came  to  live  with  Miss  Esper- 
ance,  Mrs.  Gloag  had  always  been  kind  and 
friendly,  stopped  him  in  the  road  when  he 
would  fain  have  passed  her  by,  and  yet  always 
left  him  unconsciously  cheered  by  her  greeting. 
Few  others  had  been  kind  and  friendly  then, 
and  Mr.  Wycherly  did  not  forget. 

It  was  surprising  how  many  people  remem- 
207 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

bered  such  things  of  her  now.  It  seemed  that 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  village 
could  and  did  tell  of  something  kind  Mrs.  Gloag 
had  done,  of  something  merry  and  heartening 
she  had  said.  People  forgot  now  that  she  had 
sometimes  laughed  when  it  would  have  been 
more  fitting  to  look  grave.  They  only  remem- 
bered that  she  had  cheered  the  despondent, 
strengthened  the  weak-hearted,  made  peace 
where  there  were  quarrels,  and  brought  gaiety 
and  good  humour  into  homes  where  before 
there  were  gloom  and  discontent. 

Not  for  years  had  the  church  been  so  full  as 
on  that  Sabbath  morning,  that  sunny  Sabbath 
morning  when  Mr.  Wycherly  went  to  church 
with  Miss  Esperance. 

The  minister  looked  much  as  usual.  His 
face  was  stern  and  set,  though  his  eyes  under 
the  bushy,  overhanging  gray  eyebrows  were 
the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  slept  but  little.  Yet 
his  voice  was  strong  and  full,  and  he  prayed  and 
read  the  Bible  with  his  customary  earnestness 
and  vigour. 

The  congregation  were  a  little  fluttered  to 
notice  that  in  the  Manse  pew  there  were  three 
208 


A  Parting 

tall  young  men,  and  that  the  white-haired, 
Oxfordy  gentleman  who  lived  with  Miss  Esper- 
ance  was  in  her  seat,  but  otherwise  the  service 
was  much  as  usual. 

It  was  not  until  the  time  came  for  the  sermon 
that  there  was  throughout  the  congregation 
that  little  thrill  of  excited  expectation  which 
proclaims  deep  interest. 

"What  would  be  the  minister's  text?" 

To  most  people  it  was  a  surprise:  it  was  not 
even  a  whole  text.  The  minister  preached 
upon  the  four  words,  "Be  pitiful,  be  courteous." 
His  sermon  was  the  shortest  he  had  ever  given 
in  that  church,  lasting  only  half  an  hour. 

Mr.  Wycherly  sat  with  his  elbow  on  the  desk 
in  front  of  him,  his  white,  slender  hand  shading 
his  eyes. 

Miss  Esperance  was  visibly  affected;  and  of 
the  three  young  men  in  the  Manse  seat,  one 
laid  his  head  down  on  his  crossed  arms,  but  he 
assuredly  was  not  sleeping. 

When  the  service  was  over  and  Mr.  Wycherly 
and  Miss  Esperance  were  walking  home,  she 
said  timidly:  "It  was  a  beautiful  discourse, 
don't  you  think?" 

209 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "that  he 
preached  that  sermon  for  his  wife;  and  that  it 
will  be  remembered  when  all  his  other  sermons 
are  forgotten.  I  am  glad  to  have  been  there." 

That  afternoon  the  little  boys  took  their 
Sunday  picture-books  into  the  garden  and  sat 
on  the  grass  under  the  alder  tree;  Mr.  Wych- 
erly, too,  sat  in  a  garden  chair  reading  a 
sober-looking  calf-bound  book. 

Miss  Esperance  had  returned  from  afternoon 
church,  but  she  was  so  tired  and  upset  that 
Elsa  persuaded  her  for  once  to  go  and  lie  down 
in  her  room,  and  the  children  were  warned  not 
to  disturb  their  aunt. 

Edmund's  book  was  a  large  Bible  Alphabet 
with  gaily-coloured  pictures,  which  Miss  Maggie 
Moffat  had  given  him  at  the  New  Year.  Mon- 
tagu had  brought  out  "Peep  of  Day,"  a  work 
he  detested,  but  choice  on  the  Sabbath  was 
limited  in  the  house  of  Miss  Esperance,  so  he 
looked  at  the  "Child's  Bible  Alphabet"  with 
Edmund,  and  so  often  had  they  pored  over  the 
volume  that  they  were  familiar  with  all  the 
characters  from  Abraham  to  Zacchseus. 

Presently  Edmund  shut  the  book  with  a 
210 


A  Parting 

bang.  "I  shall  know  all  these  folks  when  I 
meet  'em,  anyway/7  he  said  decidedly.  "I've 
looked  at  'em  and  looked:  I've  had  enough  of 
seeing  them,  Isaac  and  Noah  and  Jacob  and 
Mrs.  Potiphar  and  that  dancing  woman,  Mir- 
iam— none  of  them  very  handsome,  either," 
Edmund  continued  discontentedly.  "Oh,  I 
do  wish  the  Sabbath  was  over,  it's  such  a  long, 
long  day." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Montagu  musingly,  "why 
the  Bible  people  are  always  so  ugly  in  pictures; 
so  red  and  blue:  real  people  aren't  as  ugly  as 
that  even  if  they  are  a  bit  plain.  Can  you  tell 
how  it  is,  Guardie,  dear?  D'you  suppose  they're 
really  like  the  people  in  Edmund's  book?" 

"I  expect,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  cautiously, 
laying  down  his  "Alcestis"  and  smiling  at 
Montagu's  earnest  upturned  face,  "that  they 
were  very  like  the  people  we  see  every  day, 
some  neither  very  handsome  nor  very  plain. 
Some  beautiful  and  delightful." 

"I  shall  be  disappointed,"  Edmund  remarked, 

"if,  after  all,  they  turn  out  to  be  different  from 

what  they  are  in  my  book,  after  I've  taken  so 

much  trouble  to  know  them  when  Aunt  Esper- 

211 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

ance  covers  the  little  poem  at  the  bottom  and 
the  letter.  You  do  think  they'll  be  like  they 
are  here,  don't  you?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  fear  not,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said,  shaking  his 
head.  "We  can't  tell  what  they  were  like. 
You  see,  the  artists  who  made  the  pictures  in 
your  book  could  only  give  their  idea  of  the 
people  they  wished  to  represent " 

"Then  they  aren't  kind  of  f ortygraphs ! " 
Edmund  exclaimed  aghast.  "I  sha'n't  really 
know  them  when  I  meet  them,  after  all — they 
may  be  quite  different!  What  a  shame!" 

"I  wish  we  might  have  the  Theogony  out  on 
Sunday,"  Montagu  grumbled.  "The  people 
there  are  pretty  enough.  Do  you  think  we 
could,  Guardie,  dear?" 

"I  fear  not.  I  don't  think  Miss  Esperance 
would  like  it." 

"Is  your  book  a  Sunday  book?"  Edmund 
asked  severely. 

"Well,  no,  perhaps  not  exactly;  it  is  a  very 
beautiful  play." 

"What's  a  play?" 

"Something  that  can  be  acted." 

"Is  it  wicked  to  act?" 
212 


A  Parting 

"No,  I  don't  think  so — but  there  are  peo- 
pie-  -" 

"Why,  then,  did  Elsa  say  the  tiger-man  was 
wicked?  "  Edmund  interposed.  "He's  an  actor, 
isn't  he?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  spared  an  answer  to  this 
question,  as  at  that  very  moment  some  one 
was  seen  coming  through  the  garden  toward 
them — a  tall  young  man  in  black,  who  proved 
to  be  none  other  than  the  tiger-man  himself. 

The  boys  rushed  at  him,  shouting  joyfully. 
"Oh,  tiger-man,  have  you  come  to  play  with 
us?  You  promised  you  would,  you  know." 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said,  as  each 
child  seized  a  hand  and  hung  on  to  him.  "I 
have  to  go  to-night." 

"But  you'll  have  a  little  play  with  us  first; 
just  one?    It's  been  such  a  long  Sabbath,  and 
it  isn't  nearly  tea-time  yet." 

Edmund's  voice  was  very  piteous. 

"Poor  mites,"  said  the  tiger-man.  "I'll  tell 
you  what  we'll  do.  You  go  down  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden  under  the  trees  and  wait  for 
me  for  five  minutes.  Then  I'll  come  to  you 
and  we'll  do  something — it  mustn't  be  noisy — 
213 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

but  we'll  make  some  sort  of  a  play.  Just  let 
me  have  five  minutes  with  Mr.  Wycherly  here 
— see,  there's  my  watch — when  the  five  minutes 
are  up  you  give  me  a  call." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  off  his  watch  and  chain 
and  gave  it  to  Montagu.  The  little  boys  ran  to 
the  end  of  the  garden  and  waited  by  the  wall. 

"He  must  have  climbed  over/'  Edmund 
said.  "I  suppose  it  isn't  very  high  when  your 
legs  are  so  long." 

"Edmund,"  said  Montagu  very  seriously,  "I 
don't  think  we  ought  to  bother  him  to  play. 
He  looks  very  sorry.  You  see,  his  mother's 
just  dead — perhaps  he  doesn't  feel  at  all  like 
playing.  You  see,  before,  when  we  had  that 
lovely  game,  he  was  just  going  to  see  her — 
now " 

Edmund's  face  fell.  The  tiger-man's  advent 
had  seemed  a  direct  interposition  of  Providence 
on  his  behalf.  Now,  it  appeared  that  he  was 
not  to  avail  himself  of  it  after  all. 

"Sha'n't  you  call  him  when  it's  the  five 
minutes?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Montagu,  "it  would  be  kinder 
not,  don't  you  think?" 
214 


A  Parting 

Edmund's  mouth  went  down  at  the  corners. 
"It's  been  so  mizzable  all  day,"  he  sighed. 
"Aunt  Esperance  is  sorry,  and  Guardie  is  sorry, 
and  now  you're  sorry,  and  say  he  mustn't  play 
wiv  me.  How  long  must  people  keep  on  being 
sorry?  He  said  he'd  play  his  own  self." 

Montagu  was  puzzled.  He  sympathised  with 
his  small  brother — it  had  been  a  long,  dull  day 
for  him,  too — but  yet  he  felt  that  the  tiger-man 
ought  not  to  be  bothered.  Montagu  was  sen- 
sitive and  sympathetic,  and  even  as  he  had 
caught  sight  of  the  tiger-man  walking  up  the 
path  he  realised  that  it  was  a  different  tiger- 
man  from  the  one  of  a  week  ago  who  had  rolled 
over  and  over  in  the  grass  so  joyously. 

He  looked  at  the  watch  in  his  hand.  "It's 
more'n  five  minutes  now,"  he  said.  "You  can 
call  if  you  like,  I  sha'n't." 

But  Edmund  did  not  call.  Montagu  moved 
nearer  his  little  brother  and  put  his  arm  round 
him.  "We  ought  to  be  sorry  for  the  tiger-man, 
you  know,"  he  said  softly.  "He's  like  Guardie 
and  us  now." 

Edmund  leaned  against  Montagu  and  sighed. 
It  really  was  a  very  sad  and  puzzling  day. 
215 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Surely,  it's  more  than  five  minutes,"  said  a 
voice  behind  them,  and  there  was  the  tiger- 
man,  pale  certainly,  with  red  rims  round  his 
eyes,  but  evidently  ready  to  play. 

"Do  you  mind?  Are  you  sure  you  don't 
mind?"  Edmund  asked  eagerly.  "If  you'd 
rather  not — we'd  rather  not,  too." 

The  tiger-man  sat  down  on  the  rough  grass 
near  the  wall — it  was  one  of  his  agreeable 
qualities  that  he  was  ready  to  sit  down  anywhere 
at  any  moment.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  each 
of  the  little  boys,  and  they  sat  down  one  on 
each  side  and  cuddled  up  against  him. 

"You're  jolly,  decent  little  chaps,"  he  said, 
"and  I  know  just  what  you  mean,  but  I'd  like 
to  keep  my  promise  because — well,  most  of  all, 
because  she'd  like  me  to.  So  now  I'll  try  and 
be  amusing." 

And  he  was  amusing.  Edmund  forgot  his 
low  spirits  and  rolled  over  and  over  on  the 
grass  in  paroxysms  of  stifled  laughter  at  the 
things  the  tiger-man  did  and  said. 

All  too  soon  the  game  ended.  The  tiger-man 
put  on  his  watch,  and  kissed  both  the  little 
boys  in  farewell.  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  "I'm 
216 


A  Parting 

afraid  it  will  be  some  time  before  we  meet 
again,  but  I  sha'n't  forget  you." 

"We  sha'n't  forget  you.  Good-bye,  good- 
bye," called  the  little  boys,  watching  the  tiger- 
man  as  he  vaulted  lightly  over  the  wall.  Mon- 
tagu ran  after  him.  "I'd  like  to  whisper,"  he 
said  breathlessly. 

The  tiger-man  leant  over  the  wall,  and  Mon- 
tagu caught  him  round  the  neck: 

"  Although  we  laughed  and  enjoyed  it  so,"  he 
whispered,  "we  are  sorry,  we  really  are." 

The  tiger-man  kissed  Montagu  once  more, 
but  this  time  he  said  nothing  at  all. 


217 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   BETHUNE   TEMPERAMENT 

For  courage  mounteth  with  occasion. 

KING  JOHN. 

"TT  is  curious,  is  it  not,"  Miss  Esperance  said 

X  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  "how  entirely  those  two 
dear  boys  differ  in  character.  Sometimes  I 
think  that  Montagu  must  be  like  his  mother's 
family.  He  is  certainly  not  like  ours." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  fundamentally  Montagu 
is  so  very  unlike  you,  Miss  Esperance.  In 
some  ways,  too,  he  strikes  me  as  resembling 
Edmund,  though  not  on  the  surface.  I  don't 
think  that  you  need  feel  disturbed.  Montagu 
is  a  Bethune  au  fond,  although  he  may  seem 
milder  and  perhaps — er — less  strenuous  than 
Edmund." 

Miss  Esperance  shook  her  head,  unconvinced. 

"No,"  she  said,  "from  all  I  remember  of  my 
brothers  and  myself  and  from  what  I  know  of 
my  dear  father,  I  don't  think  Montagu  is  one  of 
218 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

us.  Edmund  is,  absolutely,  a  Bethune  for 
good  and  ill — and  there's  a  great  deal  of  ill, 
mind,  in  our  characters.  But  Montagu  is  too 
reflective,  too  slow  to  act.  He  is  not  impulsive, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  and  look  how  serene  he  is! 
He  is  hardly  ever  in  a  temper,  and  the  Bethunes 
have  always  been  so  hot-tempered  and  high- 
spirited." 

They  were  sitting  at  table  in  the  evening  while 
Mr.  Wycherly  drank  his  wine,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  looked  at  the  pretty  old  lady  opposite  with 
the  soft  lamplight  shining  on  her  white  hair: 
the  old  lady  who  laid  claim  to  such  violent 
characteristics  with  such  calm  assurance.  He 
did  not  point  out  to  her  that  it  was  her  beautiful 
serenity  that  set  so  wide  a  gulf  between  her  and 
more  easily  ruffled  ordinary  mortals:  he  said 
nothing,  but  he  smiled,  and  Miss  Esperance 
saw  the  smile. 

"You  must  not  think,"  she  continued,  "that 
I  in  any  way  regret  Montagu's  dissimilarity. 
He  is  a  most  kind  and  unselfish  boy;  a  dear, 
dear  boy.  And  I  wouldn't  have  him  different 
if  I  could.  But  he  is  not  like  my  people.  He 
has  the  scholar's  temperament.  He  weighs  and 
219 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

considers.  He  would  never  act  upon  impulse, 
and  sometimes  I  wonder  whether  he  is  not 
lacking  in  the  dash  and  courage  that  have 
always  marked  our  race:  those  qualities  that 
Edmund  possesses  in  so  marked  a  degree — 
together  with  so  many  others  that  are  quite 
undesirable." 

Mr.  Wycherly  ceased  to  smile.  "Do  you 
know,"  he  said,  " it  is  a  most  curious  thing,  and, 
I  suppose,  the  result  of  association,  but  some- 
times Montagu  reminds  me  a  little  of  myself 
when  I  was  a  boy.  Of  course  it  is  extremely 
unlikely  that  he  should  resemble  me  in  any  way: 
yet  our  minds  do  tend  to  run  in  the  same 
groove.  But  it's  only  our  minds.  Montagu 
has  far  more  strength  and  tenacity  of  purpose 
than  I  ever  had,  and  I  believe  that,  should  the 
necessity  arise,  he  would  show  both  dash  and 
courage.  The  Bethune  temperament  is  there, 
Miss  Esperance,  but  in  his  case  it  is  not  roused 
to  activity  by  little  things." 

Mr.  Wycherly  remembered  this  conversation 
next  day  when  he  was  out  walking  with  Mon- 
tagu. Their  way  lay  through  the  village,  past 
some  of  the  poorer  cottages,  and  from  one 
220 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

of  these  came  Jamie  Brown,  a  barefooted  lad- 
die, about  Montagu's  own  age,  but  rather 
bigger. 

As  usual  Montagu  had  hold  of  Mr.  Wycherly's 
hand,  and  there  was  something  in  the  sight  of 
the  two  figures  walking  along  so  primly  together 
that  annoyed  Jamie  excessively. 

Neither  Edmund  nor  Montagu  were  allowed 
to  play  with  the  village  boys:  about  this  Miss 
Esperance  was  most  firm  and  particular.  But 
all  the  same  Edmund  knew  and  was  hail-fellow- 
well-met  with  them  all,  and  contrived  many  a 
sly  game  of  "tippenny-nippenny"  or  "papes," 
and  many  a  secret  confab  on  his  way  to  and 
from  the  Manse.  They  all  liked  Edmund,  and 
Edmund  liked  them.  He  could  talk  broad 
Scotch,  and  did  whenever  he  got  the  chance, 
although  if  his  aunt  heard  him  she  severely  dis- 
couraged his  efforts,  even  going  so  far  as  to 
forbid  the  use  of  certain  somewhat  lurid,  if  ex- 
pressive, adjectives.  But  Montagu,  who  spent 
so  much  of  his  time  with  Mr.  Wycherly,  was  not 
drawn  toward  the  village  boys.  Their  loud 
voices  and  rough  manners  repelled  him :  he  was 
naturally  shy  and  held  himself  aloof.  Hence 
221 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

he  was  despised  and  disliked  as  "Englishey" 
and  stuck  up. 

Jamie  Brown  danced  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  road  on  his  noiseless  bare  feet,  and  walked 
mincingly  in  front  of  Mr.  Wycherly  and  Mon- 
tagu, looking  back  over  his  shoulder  from  time 
to  time  to  remark  tauntingly:  "This  is  you, 
mini's  milk,  like  a  puggie,  a  wee  Englishey 
puggie  in  a  red  coatie  jimp  an'  sma' — whaur's 
yer  organ?  Wull  yon  auld  gentleman  no  gies 
a  chune?  Puggie !  Puggie !  wha's  a  wee  puggie ! " 

Montagu  turned  very  red,  but  said  nothing. 
Mr.  Wycherly  had  never  in  the  smallest  degree 
mastered  the  dialect  of  Burnhead,  and  was 
quite  unconscious  that  Jamie's  remarks  were 
other  than  of  the  most  friendly  description.  He 
regarded  his  gyrations  with  some  surprise,  but 
did  not  realise  any  offensive  intention.  Pres- 
ently, however,  Jamie  began  to  stagger  about 
the  road  like  a  drunken  man,  at  the  same  time 
chanting  raucously: 

"Oxfordy,  Oxfordy,  Oxfordy,  Sumphl 
What'll  ye  get  from  a  soo  but  a  grumph?" 


Then  it  was  that  Montagu  felt  a  little  tremor  in 
222 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

his  guardian's  hand,  and  looking  up,  saw  that 
his  face  was  lined  and  drawn  as  with  pain. 

Now  Mr.  Wycherly  was  well  aware  that  Jamie 
Brown  could  not  by  any  possibility  know  of  his 
past  weakness  through  personal  knowledge; 
for  his  " foible"  had  ceased  to  be  a  foible  long 
before  Jamie  was  born.  Yet  it  was  pain  inex- 
pressible that  his  old  frailty  could  be  made  an 
instrument  of  persecution  for  Montagu.  The 
love  and  admiration  of  the  two  little  boys,  who 
had  come  so  unexpectedly  and  beneficently 
into  his  life,  were  very  precious  to  him,  and  that 
anything  could  be  done  or  said  to  lower  him  in 
their  estimation  or  hurt  them  through  his  past 
infirmity,  was  little  short  of  torture. 

Montagu,  who  couldn't  imagine  why  Jamie 
was  reeling  about  the  road  in  that  idiotic  fash- 
ion, understood  well  enough  the  insulting 
couplet,  and  saw  that  Mr.  Wycherly  was 
pained. 

"I  can't  stand  this  any  more,"  he  said,  drag- 
ging his  hand  from  his  guardian's;  "he's  got  to 
stop  it." 

He  ran  forward,  and  with  a  bound  leapt  upon 
Jamie  from  behind,  who,  taken  by  surprise, 
223 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

went  down  with  Montagu  on  the  top  of  him. 
Over  and  over  in  the  mud  the  boys  rolled,  kick- 
ing, scratching,  thumping,  doing  everything, 
in  fact,  of  a  combative  nature  except  bite. 

Mr.  Wycherly  remained  where  he  was,  watch- 
ing them.  Mause  would  fain  have  hurled  her- 
self into  the  press,  too,  but  he  caught  the  old 
dog  by  the  collar  just  in  time,  and  had  hard 
work  to  hold  her,  as  she  bounced  and  barked 
and  choked  in  her  efforts  to  get  free.  He  did 
not  feel  called  upon  to  interfere  between  the 
boys,  for  they  were  not  ill-matched,  and  Jamie 
had  assuredly  been  the  aggressor.  Presently, 
however,  he  saw  that  Montagu  was  uppermost, 
that  he  had  got  his  adversary  by  the  throat,  and 
was  deliberately  bumping  the  boy's  head  on  the 
ground,  while  he  never  relaxed  his  hold  for  an 
instant,  and  that  Jamie  was  rapidly  getting 
black  in  the  face. 

Still  holding  Mause,  Mr.  Wycherly  ran  for- 
ward, shouting,  " Loose  him,  Montagu;  let  him 
go,  I  say.  Don't  you  see  you're  throttling  the 
boy?  You'll  choke  him;  let  go,  I  say." 

"I  want  to  choke  him,"  Montagu  gasped,  as 
Mr.  Wycherly,  still  holding  the  struggling 
224 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

Mause  with  one  hand,  attempted  to  drag  his 
ward  off  the  prostrate  Jamie  with  the  other. 
"I  want  to  kill  him.  I'd  have  done  it,  too,  if 
you  hadn't  interfered." 

"Nonsense,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  sharply. 
"  Don't  you  know  yet  that  you  mustn't  keep  on 
hitting  a  man  when  he's  down?  Here,  catch 
hold  of  Mause  for  me.  Get  up,  boy!" 

And  he  half  lifted  the  recumbent  Jamie,  who, 
though  somewhat  limp,  was  beginning  to  as- 
sume a  normal  complexion. 

Montagu  glared  at  his  foe  like  an  angry 
terrier.  ' '  We  haven't  finished,"  he  cried.  ' ' Let 
me  get  at  him  to  box  him  some  more.  You 
hold  Mause  again.  Come  on!" 

And  Montagu,  whose  nose  was  bleeding, 
while  one  eye  was  rapidly  disappearing  in  a 
tremendous  bruise,  danced  up  and  down  im- 
patiently, in  concert  with  the  excited  Mause. 

But  Jamie  was  holding  his  neck  and  gasping. 

"I'll  no'  fecht  nae  mair  wi'  yon  wee  teeger," 
he  said  slowly.  "He's  gey  an'  spunkie,"  he 
added,  "for  all  he's  sae  genty  and  mini.  Ma 
certie!  his  hauns  can  tak  a  grup  although 
they're  sae  wee." 

225 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

" There,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly.  "He 
says  that  he  has  had  enough,  so,  of  course,  you 
can't  go  on  any  more.  Now  you  must  shake 
hands  with  each  other,  for  it's  all  over." 

Frankly,  and  with  no  sort  of  grudge,  Jamie 
held  out  his  square,  brown  fist.  "I'll  no'  ca' 
ye  a  puggie  onny  mair,"  he  said  handsomely. 

Montagu  was  still  eyeing  his  late  foe  with 
some  hostility:  but  as  his  guardian  had  bidden 
him  to  shake  hands  he  felt  it  must  be  the  proper 
thing  to  do,  so  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Per- 
haps," he  said  hopefully,  "you'll  fight  with  me 
again  some  day." 

"Ah'm  no'  sae  shure,"  Jamie  replied  cau- 
tiously, and  in  another  minute  was  speeding  on 
his  swift,  bare  feet  toward  his  mother's  cottage. 

Montagu,  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  was  indeed  a  deplorable  figure:  covered 
from  head  to  foot  with  mud  and  blood,  with  a 
singing  in  his  ears,  and  an  extremely  sore  eye, 
he  looked  about  as  disreputable  an  object  as 
could  be  imagined.  Mr.  Wycherly  stood  back 
and  regarded  him  curiously.  "We  must  go 
home,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  we 
shall  not  meet  many  people  on  the  way.  Here's 
226 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

a  handkerchief;  just  try  and  mop  that  unfor- 
tunate nose  of  yours.  What  Miss  Esperance 
will  say,  my  dear  Montagu,  I  really  cannot 
imagine." 

They  turned  homeward,  and  had  not  gone 
many  yards  when  they  met  the  Misses  Moffat, 
who  stopped,  holding  up  their  hands  in  horror 
at  Montagu's  appearanec. 

Mr.  Wycherly  had  never  yet  spoken  to  them 
and  would  fain  have  passed  them  now  with  a 
courteous  salutation.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 
They  closed  in  upon  him  and  Montagu,  both 
asking  at  once  what  dreadful  mishap  had 
occurred. 

Mr.  Wycherly  again  lifted  his  hat.  "The 
fact  is,"  he  said,  "Montagu  has  been  engaged 
in  the  rough  and  tumble.  There  has  been  a 
great  deal  of  tumble  and  a  fair  amount  of  rough. 
But  no  serious  damage  has  been  done.  I 
think,  however,  that  the  sooner  he  gets  home 
and  changes  the  better."  And  yet  again  lifting 
his  hat  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  Montagu, 
he  prepared  to  go  on  his  way. 

But  the  Misses  Moffat  were  not  satisfied. 
"And  you  let  him  fight?"  Miss  Maggie  ex- 
227 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

claimed  reproachfully.    "Oh,  sir!  do  you  think 
it  was  right?" 

"Yes,  madam,"  Mr.  Wycherly  answered 
boldly.  "I  think  it  would  have  been  wrong  to 
interfere." 

"But  you  did  interfere,"  Montagu  exclaimed 
in  injured  tones.  "I'd  have  killed  him  if  you 
hadn't." 

"Killed  who?"  shrieked  Miss  Jeanie.  "But 
this  is  dreadful " 

"I  really  think,"  Mr.  Wycherly  interposed, 
"that  we  must  get  back  at  once.  Good-day  to 
you — good-day." 

And  seizing  Montagu's  hand,  he  fairly  ran 
from  the  Misses  Moffat  in  the  direction  of  Re- 
mote. 

Miss  Esperance  met  them  at  the  gate.  When 
she  caught  sight  of  Montagu,  she,  too,  gazed  in 
wonder  and  consternation,  and  ran  out  to  them, 
crying,  "What  has  happened?  Has  he  been 
run  over?  Is  he  badly  hurt?" 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  pointing  to  Mon- 
tagu, "is  the  result,  my  dear  Miss  Esperance, 
of  a  sudden  manifestation  Of — the  Bethune 
temperament." 

228 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

Miss  Esperance  flushed  a  most  beautiful  pink. 
She  stooped  and  kissed  her  great-nephew's  most 
uninviting-looking  countenance. 

"He  has  been  fighting/'  she  said  quietly, 
"and  I  fear  he  has  had  the  worst  of  it." 

"That  I  didn't,"  the  belligerent  one  ex- 
claimed joyously.  "I'd  have  killed  him  quite 
dead  if  Guardie  hadn't  stopped  me.  He 
wouldn't  let  me." 

"Who  was  it?"  Miss  Esperance  asked  with 
breathless  interest. 

"Jamie  Broun;  he  was  rude.  His  father 
makes  wheels  and  things,  you  know." 

"Come  and  get  cleaned,  my  dear,  dear  boy. 
It's  very  wrong  to  fight,  but  sometimes — in  a 
good  cause,  it  maybe  necessary.  Come  away  in." 

And  Miss  Esperance  walked  up  the  garden 
path  with  her  arm  round  Montagu's  neck. 

Presently  she  tapped  at  Mr.  Wycherly's  door. 
When  she  came  in  her  gentle  face  was  wreathed 
with  smiles. 

"I've  just  come  to  confess  to  you,"  she  said, 

"that  I  feel  you  were  right  and  I  was  wrong 

last  night.    There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that 

Montagu  is  a  real  Bethune.    In  1657  Archibald 

229 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Bethune  did  with  his  own  hands  choke  to  death 
an  Irish  wrestler  who  had  set  upon  him  in  a 
lonely  inn  in  Forfarshire.  The  man  was  seven 
feet  high,  so  the  old  chronicle  says.  I've  just 
been  looking." 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Miss  Esperance?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,  not  now.  I  have  several 
things  to  see  to;  but,  dear  friend,  I  felt  that  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  recognise  that  your  in- 
sight is  deeper  than  mine.  Montagu  is  a  true 
Bethune:  he  will  be  a  man  of  his  hands  even 
as  the  rest  of  our  house." 

"For  my  part,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  dryly, 
"I  would  rather  fall  into  the  hands  of  Edmund 
than  those  of  Montagu  when  he  is  roused. 
Especially  as  it  would  appear  to  be  an  agreeable 
characteristic  of  the  Bethunes  to  throttle  their 
adversaries." 

"We  have  always  been  a  fighting  race,"  Miss 
Esperance  remarked  complacently,  and  de- 
parted with  pride  in  her  port  and  satisfaction 
writ  large  upon  her  face. 

Mr.  Wycherly  looked  thoughtful.    "And  she 
the  gentlest  and  tenderest  of  women!"  he  mur- 
mured.   "How  strange  they  are!" 
230 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

That  afternoon  the  Misses  Moffat  called  to  ask 
after  Montagu. 

They  found  him  resting,  with  a  bandaged 
eye,  upon  the  sofa  in  his  aunt's  parlour,  with 
Flaxman's  "Theogony"  open  on  his  knees  for 
his  amusement.  His  head  ached  badly,  but 
he  was  quite  happy.  He  knew  that  in  some 
way  this  exploit,  although  it  entailed  much 
destruction  to  garments  and  was  altogether  of 
an  unlawful  and  unusual  order,  had  not  really 
grieved  his  aunt.  She  had  lectured  him  gently, 
it  is  true,  but  she  had  been  very  kind  as  well, 
and  had  given  him  a  whole  bunch  of  raisins  to 
console  him  when  he  was  left  at  home — his 
appearance  being  unsuited  just  then  to  polite 
society — and  she  and  Edmund  drove  over  to 
see  Lady  Alicia. 

Miss  Maggie  came  and  sat  down  beside  his 
sofa,  and  after  sundry  searching  inquiries  after 
his  various  wounds,  she  divulged  the  real  reason 
of  her  visit. 

"I  felt,  my  dear,"  said  kind  Miss  Maggie, 
"that  I  must  come  and  tell  you  a  story,  a 
wee  story,  I  read  just  the  other  day  in  'Wise 
Words.'" 

231 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

" Thank  you  very  much,"  Montagu  said  po- 
litely. 

"It  was  told  by  a  Quaker  gentleman " 

"What's  a  Quaker,  please?"  Montagu  inter- 
rupted. 

"A  very  good  man ' 

"Are  there  many  of  them  or  only  one?" 

"I  think  there  must  be  a  good  many,  but 
that  doesn't  matter,"  Miss  Maggie  said  hastily, 
rather  flurried  by  these  interruptions. 

"I  like  to  understand  things  as  I  go  along. 
Guardie  says  you  must  never  pass  a  word  you 
don't  understand.  Yes,  a  Quaker  gentleman, 
a  very  good  man — what  next?" 

"Well,  this  Quaker  gentleman  had  a  class  for 
boys,  a  Sunday  class " 

"Was  he  a  minister  as  well  as  a  Quaker?" 
asked  the  incorrigible  Montagu. 

"No,  no,  he  just  taught  them  for  kindness, 
and  he  was  much  pleased,  because  one  day  he 
asked  his  class  whether  they  would  rather  kill 
a  man  or  be  killed  themselves,  and  all  of  them, 
with  one  accord,  every  single  boy,  said  he'd 
rather  be  killed  himself  than  take  the  life  of  a 
fellow-creature." 

232 


The  Bethune  Temperament 

Miss  Maggie  paused  and  looked  at  Montagu 
for  admiration  of  these  noble  sentiments. 

He  shook  his  head  vigorously.  "I'm  not 
like  that,"  he  said  decidedly.  "Why,  I'd 
rather  kill  ten  men  than  be  killed  myself — and 
I'd  try  to  do  it  too,  first." 


233 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   COMING  OP  THE  COLONEL 
Soldier,  soldier,  home  from  the  wars. 

AT  Remote  a  box  hedge  separated  the  path 
leading  to  the  back  door  from  the  trim 
front  garden  sacred  to  visitors.  Edmund  often 
played  behind  that  hedge.  It  made  good  cover 
for  tiger  shooting  and  suchlike  thrilling  sport; 
and  on  this  particular  day  he  was  in  pursuit  of 
a  bear,  a  brown  bear  of  terrific  size  and  grizzli- 
ness. 

It  was  a  very  still  morning :  Elsa  and  Robina 
were  busy  at  the  back  hanging  out  clothes  to 
dry.  Mr.  Wycherly  and  Montagu  were,  as 
usual,  engaged  in  the  study  of  Greek  or  Latin 
in  the  room  upstairs.  Miss  Esperance  had  gone 
to  see  a  sick  woman  in  the  village,  and  Mr. 
Gloag  was  away  on  a  holiday.  Therefore  was 
Edmund  free  to  amuse  himself  as  best  he  could, 
provided  he  did  not  stir  beyond  the  garden. 

He  was  getting  a  little  tired  of  his  solitary 
234 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

pursuit  of  big  game  when  he  heard  a  horse's 
hoofs  ringing  sharply  on  the  road,  accompanied 
by  a  quite  unfamiliar  jingling.  Both  hoofs  and 
jingling  stopped  at  the  green  gate,  and  Edmund, 
peering  through  a  hole  in  the  hedge,  saw  a 
soldier,  a  most  resplendent  soldier,  in  dark  blue 
uniform  and  a  brass  helmet  with  a  white  plume, 
dismount  from  a  big  black  horse  and  push  open 
the  green  gate,  where  he  paused  and  whistled. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  brown,  good- 
humoured  face,  and  he  waited  evidently  in  the 
hope  that  some  one  would  hear  his  whistle  and 
come. 

But  no  one  came.  Mr.  Wycherly  generally 
shut  the  window  that  looked  out  to  the  front 
as  a  preventive  of  interruptions. 

The  soldier  whistled  again  loud  and  clear, 
then  he  began  to  sing  a  little  song.  He  was 
evidently  a  patient  man  and  didn't  mind  wait- 
ing. Edmund,  his  round  face  glued  to  the  hole 
in  the  hedge,  watched  him  with  absorbed  in- 
terest ;  noting  carefully  both  words  and  tune  of 
the  song. 

The  soldier  sang,  not  at  all  loudly,  but  quite 
distinctly  and  with  a  certain  rollicking  joviality 
235 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

that  the  child  found  most  fascinating.  Finally 
he  opened  the  green  gate  and  led  his  horse  up 
the  garden  path  to  the  front  door,  where  he 
rang  the  bell. 

Still  no  one  came,  and  Edmund,  greatly  ex- 
cited, darted  out  into  the  road  and  in  at  the 
gate  till  he,  too,  stood  beside  the  waiting 
soldier. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  the  soldier.  "I've 
got  a  note  here  for  Miss  Bethune  from  the 
Colonel.  This  'ere  'ouse  is  Remote,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Edmund  answered  with  solemn 
politeness,  "but  who's  the  Colonel?" 

"Colonel  Dundas,  sir.  Can  you  take  the 
note,  sir?  I  was  to  wait  for  an  answer,  but  I 
can't  seem  to  make  anybody  hear,"  and  the 
soldier  held  out  a  square,  white  envelope  to 
Edmund. 

"I'll  put  it  on  the  table  inside,"  Edmund  said. 
"My  aunt  is  out,  but  please  don't  go  away  yet; 
I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.  Have  you  had  a  battle 
lately,  and  did  you  kill  many  enemies?  And 
what  are  you?  Are  you  a  general  or  a  major?  " 

The  soldier  laughed.    "Well,  sir,  no,  I  ain't 
got  that  rank  yet — I'm  an  orderly,  sir." 
236 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

"What's  that?"  asked  Edmund. 

"A  private  solider,  sir.  Would  you  like  a 
ride,  little  gentleman?  I'll  lift  you  up,  and  you 
can  sit  on  the  'orse's  back  and  I'll  lead  'im 
down  to  the  gate  and  a  little  way  down  the 
road,  if  you  like,  sir." 

"You  are  a  kind  man,"  said  Edmund  grate- 
fully. "I  should  like  that  so  much." 

And  in  what  the  soldier  would  have  called  a 
"brace  of  shakes"  Edmund  was  seated  on  the 
back  of  the  tall  black  charger  and  was  riding 
down  the  path  to  the  green  gate. 

Out  into  the  road  did  he  go  and  down  the 
village  street  till  they  reached  the  corner  where 
the  highway  leads  to  Edinburgh;  there  the 
soldier  lifted  him  off,  swung  himself  up  into  the 
saddle,  and  they  parted  with  mutual  expres- 
sions of  esteem. 

Edmund  trotted  back  to  the  house.  No  one 
had  missed  him.  Miss  Esperance  had  not  yet 
returned,  and  the  square,  white  envelope  still 
lay  on  the  hall  table  unopened. 

That  day  at  dinner  the  little  boys  learned 
from  their  aunt  that  the  Colonel  of  the  cavalry 
regiment  just  come  to  Jock's  Lodge  was  an 
237 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

old  friend  of  hers,  and  was  coming  out  to  tea 
with  them  on  the  following  day.  They  talked 
and  thought  of  nothing  else  till  bedtime.  Next 
morning  Edmund,  still  at  a  loose  end,  got 
tired  of  play  in  the  garden  by  himself  and  in- 
vaded his  aunt  in  her  parlour,  where  she  was 
busy  mending  Montagu's  stockings. 

He  fidgeted  round  about  Miss  Esperance, 
dropping  balls  of  wool  and  pricking  his  fingers 
with  darning  needles,  finally  upsetting  a  large 
box  of  pins:  which  his  aunt  commanded  him 
to  pick  up  and  replace.  This  he  did,  and  light- 
ened his  labours  by  suddenly  bursting  into  song : 

O  there's  not  a  king  is  so  gay  as  me — 

With  my  glass  in  my  hand  and  my  wench  on  my  knee, 

When  I  gets  back  to  the  old  countrie 

And  the  regiment's  home  again. 

Edmund  had  a  clear,  loud  voice,  and  could 
sing  any  tune  on  earth  after  he  had  heard  it  once. 

Miss  Esperance  dropped  the  stocking  she  was 
darning,  and  exclaimed  in  horrified  tones: 
"Edmund!  My  dear  boy!  Where  in  the 
world  did  you  learn  that  song?  Never  let  me 
hear  it  again!" 

238 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

"The  soldier  gentleman  what  brought  the 
Colonel's  letter  was  singing  it  that  morning  he 
came,  and  nobody  answered  the  door  to  him. 
He  waited  ever  so  long.  What's  wrong  with 
it,  Aunt  Esperance?  D'you  not  like  it?" 

11  Like  it!"  Miss  Esperance  repeated.  "It's 
a  shocking,  low  song,  and  quite  unsuitable  for 
the  lips  of  a  little  boy." 

"What's  unshootable?"  demanded  the  vola- 
tile Edmund,  quite  unabashed. 

Miss  Esperance  was  busy  re-threading  the 
darning-needle  Edmund's  surprising  ditty  had 
caused  her  to  drop,  and  she  did  not  reply  at 
once. 

"What's  unshootable?"  Edmund  demanded 
again. 

"Unsuitable,"  Miss  Esperance  corrected. 

"Well,  'shootable'  or  'sootable,'  whichever 
it  is;  what  does  it  mean,  Aunt  Esperance?" 

"It  means  not  fitting." 

"Like  my  top-coat  that's  got  too  wee?" 

"No,  Edmund,  I  did  not  in  this  case  refer  to 
bodily  things." 

"Like  boots,  then?"  Edmund  persisted,  his 
head  on  one  side  like  an  inquisitive  sparrow's. 
239 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Miss  Esperance  detached  her  mind  from  her 
darning.  "What  I  meant  was,"  she  said 
seriously,  "that  a  vulgar  and  ugly  song  is  dis- 
tressing enough  upon  anybody's  lips,  but  above 
all  upon  the  lips  of  a  child." 

"I  don't  sing  with  my  lips,"  Edmund  ob- 
jected. "What's  a  wench,  Aunt  Esperance?" 

"A  wench  is  a  young  woman,"  Miss  Esper- 
ance reluctantly  explained. 

"Hooo!"  Edmund  cried  scornfully.  "I 
thought  it  was  armour  of  some  sort.  I  don't 
think  I'd  be  very  gay  with  a  young  woman  on 
my  knee — if  she  was  as  heavy  as  Robina,  any- 
way." 

"Hush,  Edmund!  I  will  not  have  you  dis- 
cuss that  odious  song  any  more.  Forget  it  as 
quickly  as  you  can;  and  I  shall  have  to  speak 
to  Colonel  Dundas  about  allowing  his  men  to 
sing  such  songs  before  you!" 

"He  didn't  know  I  was  there,"  Edmund  said 
loyally.  "He  was  the  very  nicest  man,  and 
Elsa  never  answered  the  door.  It's  such  a 
nice  tune,  too,"  he  added  regretfully. 

Miss  Esperance  made  no  answer.  Her  busy 
needle  flew  in  and  out  of  the  stocking,  and 
240 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

she  appeared  absorbed  in  her  beautiful  darn- 
ing. 

Edmund  had  picked  up  all  the  pins,  and  he 
fidgeted  about  in  silence  for  a  minute  more  till 
he  observed  thoughtfully: 

"So  shootable's  a  vulgar  song?" 

"Child!  You  do  nothing  but  misunderstand 
me  to-day.  I  never  said  the  song  was  suitable, 
I  said  it  was  unsuitable,  which  means  inappro- 
priate, and,  in  this  case — improper." 

"Were  you  ever  a  wench,  Aunt  Esperance?" 

"Certainly  not,"  Miss  Esperance  answered, 
with  considerable  heat. 

"But  you  was  a  young  woman  once,  Aunt 
Esperance?" 

"That  word,  Edmund,  is  never  applied  to 
well-bred  women  at  any  time  of  life.  It  is  not 
in  itself  a  term  of  reproach,  but  it  refers  gener- 
ally to — ':  Miss  Esperance  paused. 

"What's  it  refer  to?" 

"Well — to  women  of  the  less  refined  classes. 
It  is  a  South  of  England  word — somewhat 
equivalent  to  our  '  lassie."3 

"Which   is  the   less   refined   classes,   Aunt 
Esperance?    Is  they  in  a  school?" 
241 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  You  do  nothing  but 
ask  questions  to-day,"  Miss  Esperance  sighed. 
"Still,  it  is  right  you  should  understand.  The 
less  refined  classes,  Edmund,  are  such  as 
have  not  had  many  advantages  in  the  way  of 
education  or  upbringing.  Excellent  persons 
often " 

"Perhaps  yon  wench  was  an  excellent  per- 
son," Edmund  suggested  hopefully. 

Miss  Esperance  showed  no  inclination  to  dis- 
cuss the  possible  merits  of  this  young  woman, 
and  Edmund  continued,  "Had  you  many  ad- 
vantages, Aunt  Esperance?" 

"Certainly  I  had." 

"Then  you  was  never  a  wench?" 

"Never!" 

"Why  should  he  like  a  wench  to  sit  on  his 
knee,  Aunt  Esperance?  She'd  be  very  hot  and 
heavy." 

"I  really  must  refuse  to  discuss  that  song 
any  more.  Forget  it  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
never,  never  sing  it  again." 

"He  was  such  a  nice  man,"  Edmund  per- 
sisted. "He  had  such  a  beautiful  helmet." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  "if  you  are 
242 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

both  good  boys  I'll  take  you  over  one  day  to 
Pier's  Hill  to  see  the  soldiers  being  drilled." 
And  in  this  entrancing  prospect  Edmund  forgot 
all  about  the  " unsuitable"  song. 

"Aunt  Esperance  would  like  you  should  come 
to  tea  with  us  this  afternoon,  Guardie,  dear." 

It  was  Montagu  who  spoke.  Lessons  were 
over,  but  he  had  sought  Mr.  Wycherly  again 
to  deliver  this  message. 

"It  is  most  kind  of  Miss  Esperance,"  said  Mr. 
Wycherly.  "I  shall  of  course  be  delighted  and 
highly  honoured,  but  why  am  I  to  have  this 
treat  to-day,  is  it  a  birthday? — No — I  know  it 
isn't  a  birthday " 

"Colonel  Dundas  is  coming.  He  knew  my 
daddie,  and  he  knew  my  grandfather,  and  Aunt 
Esperance  is  very  anxious  he  should  see  you. 
She  said  so." 

"Don't  you  think,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said  ner- 
vously, "that  I  might  be  a  little  in  the  way? 
If  Colonel  Dundas  is  such  an  old  friend,  they  will 
have  many  things  to  talk  over.  Wouldn't  it 
be  better  for  me  to  come  some  other  time?" 

"No,  it  wouldn't;  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't. 
Aunt  Esperance  said  that  she  most  pertikler 
243 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

wants  Colonel  Dundas  to  see  you.    Do  you 
think  he'll  be  able  to  sing,  Guardie,  dear?" 

"To  sing,"  Mr.  Wycherly  repeated.  "Why 
should  he  sing  at  tea-time?" 

"Well,  the  soldier  Edmund  saw  (that  gave 
him  the  ride — I  wish  I'd  been  there,  I  did  hear 
something,  but  I  thought  it  was  just  a  butcher, 
perhaps),  he  could  sing  beautifully.  Edmund 
said  so.  I  thought  perhaps  all  soldiers  can 
sing." 

' '  Perhaps  they  can,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly.  ' 1 1 
really  don't  know.  You  can  ask  him  when  he 
comes.  But  not  at  tea-time,  mind — that 
wouldn't  be  polite.  It  seems  to  me,  Montagu, 
that,  as  Colonel  Dundas  is  coming,  we  might  ask 
him  if  there  is  any  sergeant  in  his  regiment  who 
would  teach  you  to  box — properly.  No  chok- 
ing, you  know,  or  anything  of  that  sort — you 
must  learn  to  keep  your  temper  when  you 
fight." 

"But,  Guardie,  dear,  I  should  never  want  to 
fight  at  all  if  I  kept  my  temper.  It's  when  I'm 
angry  I  want  to  fight.  What's  the  good  of 
fighting  with  someone  you're  perfectly  pleased 
with?" 

244 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

"You  won't  feel  perfectly  pleased  when 
you've  been  cuffed  about  the  head  pretty  hard, 
but  you  must  behave  as  if  you  were,  and  that's 
where  the  good  training  comes  in.  No  one  can 
box  properly  who  is  in  a  rage.  It  would  be 
good  for  you  to  learn." 

"Will  Edmund  learn?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  do;  but  he  needs  it  less 
than  you." 

Montagu  felt  rather  aggrieved.  His  guar- 
dian's approval  was  very  dear  to  him,  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  had  never  even  indirectly  referred  to 
his  encounter  with  Jamie  Brown  until  this 
moment.  The  little  boy  did  not  enjoy  the  cold 
water  thus  thrown  upon  his  exploit.  He  had 
felt  more  or  less  of  a  hero  ever  since,  and  here 
was  Mr.  Wycherly  suggesting  that  he  should  be 
taught  to  "fight  properly,"  and  that  he  needed 
such  tuition  much  more  than  Edmund,  who 
was  not  nearly  so  well-behaved  in  general  as 
he.  Montagu  was  puzzled;  but  he  was  ac- 
customed to  take  most  things  that  his  guardian 
said  wholly  upon  trust,  and  being  really  humble- 
minded  he  came  to  the  sorrowful  conclusion 
that  in  some  way  he  had  not  acquitted  him- 
245 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

self  quite  perfectly  in  his  battle  with  Jamie 
Brown. 

He  was,  however,  dreadfully  puzzled  why 
anyone  should  care  to  fight  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  fighting,  and  that  his  guardian, 
most  gentle  and  peace-loving  of  men,  should 
suggest  such  unpleasing  occupation  as  being 
both  necessary  and  beneficial  was  quite  incom- 
prehensible. The  coming  of  the  Colonel  was 
shorn  of  some  of  its  splendour  of  anticipation 
in  consequence. 

At  last  tea-time  arrived  and  with  it  the 
Colonel.  He,  too,  rode  over,  but,  to  the  great 
disappointment  of  the  little  boys,  he  was  not 
in  uniform  as  they  had  expected.  It  is  true  he 
wore  beautiful  breeches  and  gaiters:  but  he 
hadn't  a  weapon  of  any  kind  except  a  crop, 
nor  did  he  wear  a  helmet,  which  grieved  Ed- 
mund unspeakably. 

All  the  same  he  was  a  kind  and  jolly  gentle- 
man. He  had  known  Admiral  Bethune  and 
Miss  Esperance  when  he  was  young;  and,  like 
the  honest  soldier  he  was,  did  not  forget  people 
who  had  been  kind  to  him;  he  had  also  been 
friendly  with  poor  Archie  Bethune,  and  was  in- 
246 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

terested  in  seeing  his  little  sons:  and  there  was 
also  just  a  spice  of  curiosity  in  his  visit.  He 
had  heard  of  Mr.  Wycherly;  of  the  curious 
charge  undertaken  by  Miss  Esperance;  of  the 
way  that  charge  had,  in  his  turn,  undertaken 
the  joint  guardianship  of  her  great-nephews. 

What  did  the  Colonel  expect  to  see? 

It  would  be  hard  to  define.  He  had  formed 
a  hazy  conception  of  some  weak-minded  man: 
amiable,  incompetent,  wholly  lacking  in  those 
manly  attributes  that  the  Colonel  considered 
essential.  He  wondered  greatly  what  sort  of 
training  these  little  boys  could  have  with  such 
strange  protectors:  an  old  lady — a  delightful 
old  lady  Colonel  Dundas  would  have  been  the 
first  to  grant — and  this  eccentric,  ineffectual 
recluse  who  was  known  to  have  made  such  a 
hopeless  fiasco  of  his  own  life. 

As  he  rode  over  to  Remote  the  Colonel  shook 
his  head  sorrowfully  from  time  to  time  while  he 
murmured  to  himself,  "Poor  little  chaps!" 

Not  until  they  were  all  seated  at  the  tea- 
table  and  Robina  rang  the  bell  outside  did  Mr. 
Wycherly  come  down. 

As  he  came  into  the  room  the  Colonel  looked 
247 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

a  little  startled.  He  rose  and  shook  hands 
cordially,  and  then  proceeded  to  readjust  his 
ideas.  This  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  ex- 
pected. A  handsome  man  himself,  he  was 
quite  ready  to  recognise  good  looks  and,  above 
all,  distinction  in  another  man;  and  Mr. 
Wycherly's  was,  even  by  the  Colonel's  standard, 
a  striking  personality. 

It  is  impossible  to  dream  perpetually  when 
your  companions  for  many  hours  out  of  each 
day  are  two  exceedingly  lively  small  boys  with 
inquiring  minds.  Mr.  Wycherly's  expression 
had  lost  much  of  its  vagueness;  and  although 
it  was  still  a  great  effort  for  him  to  brace  him- 
self to  meet  strangers,  he  did  it  for  the  sake  of 
the  little  boys  and  Miss  Esperance.  He  did 
not  want  them  to  feel  that  he  was  in  any  way 
singular.  What  other  people  felt  was  a  matter 
of  the  greatest  indifference  to  him,  and  this 
gave  his  manner  a  certain  poise  and  confidence 
that  had  been  wholly  wanting  during  his  first 
years  at  Remote. 

All  the  time  during  tea,  while  Colonel  Dundas 
was  consuming  quantities  of  Elsa's  thrice-ex- 
cellent scones  and  conversing  pleasantly  with 
248 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

his  hosts,  something  in  the  back  of  his  brain 
kept  reiterating,  "I've  been  confoundedly  mis- 
informed about  this  man."  And  he  found  him- 
self mentally  accusing  vague  rumour  of  a  pack 
of  lies:  "Making  me  think  the  fellow  a  sort  of 
village  idiot,  while  all  the  time  he's  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman — I'd  like  to  know  who  was 
responsible  for  it  in  the  first  place." 

After  tea  the  Colonel  asked  if  he  might  smoke 
a  cigar  in  the  garden,  when  it  was  found  to  be 
raining. 

No  one  had  ever  smoked  at  Remote,  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  felt  rather  nervous  in  offering  his 
room  for  that  purpose.  But  Miss  Esperance 
pressed  the  Colonel  to  go  and  have  his  smoke 
there,  and  sent  him  up  alone  with  Mr.  Wycherly, 
while  she,  greatly  to  their  indignation,  detained 
the  little  boys  with  her. 

"You'll  come  down  and  have  a  chat  with  us 
when  you've  finished  your  smoke,  Malcolm?" 
she  said  cheerfully.  So  it  came  about  that  Mr. 
Wycherly  actually  entertained  a  man  of  about 
his  own  age  and  social  standing  in  his  room  at 
Remote. 

They  seemed  to  have  plenty  to  say,  and  the 
249 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Colonel's  big,  jolly  laugh  rang  out  from  time  to 
time. 

When  he  came  down  he  took  a  small  boy  on 
each  knee  and  poked  fun  at  them:  till,  finally, 
out  of  a  perfect  farrago  of  nonsense,  they  eluci- 
dated the  fact  that  they  were  to*  go  over  to 
Pier's  Hill  twice  a  week  to  be  drilled  and  in- 
structed in  the  noble  art  of  self-defence:  and 
that  the  Colonel  would  himself  write  to  London 
that  very  night  for  the  two  smallest  pairs  of 
boxing-gloves  made. 

"Did  Guardie  ask  you  about  it?"  Montagu 
inquired  anxiously. 

"Will  my  soldier  teach  us?"  Edmund  de- 
manded at  the  same  instant. 

"Who  will  take  us?"  both  asked  at  once,  and 
before  the  Colonel  could  disentangle  the  ques- 
tions his  horse  was  brought  round  by  a  lad 
engaged  for  the  purpose  that  very  afternoon. 
And  the  weather  was  discovered  to  be  per- 
fectly fine. 

The  whole  family  turned  out  to  see  him 
mount  and  ride  off,  for  Montagu  had  rushed  up- 
stairs to  fetch  Mr.  Wycherly,  that  he  might  not 
miss  this  entrancing  spectacle. 
250 


The  Coming  of  the  Colonel 

The  Colonel,  as  he  reached  the  corner,  looked 
back  at  the  little  group  standing  by  the  green 
gate  and  waved  his  hat  to  them:  and  for  just 
a  minute  after  the  landscape  seemed  a  little 
blurred. 

"  There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  making 
men,"  he  said  to  a  brother  officer  at  mess  that 
night.  "It's  the  quaintest  household,  but  upon 
my  soul,  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  those  two 
capital  little  chaps  are  not  rather  to  be  envied." 

The  Colonel  was  not  familiar  with  the  writings 
of  a  certain  monk  of  Flanders,  or  he  might  have 
remembered  that  it  is  love  alone  that  "maketh 
light  all  that  is  burthensome  and  equally  bears 
all  that  is  unequal." 


251 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MR.   WYCHERLY  GOES  INTO  SOCIETY 

Where  is  the  man  who  has  the  power  and  skill 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  a  woman's  will? 

WHILE  Mr.  Gloag  was  away  upon  his 
holiday  a  strange  minister  and  his  wife 
came  to  look  after  the  congregation  at  Burn- 
head.  The  inhabitants  regarded  them  with 
more  or  less  suspicion,  for  they  came  from  a  big 
town,  and  their  ways  were  unaccustomed. 

Mr.  Dewar,  the  visiting  minister,  was  mild 
and  inoffensive,  with  no  strongly  marked  char- 
acteristic of  any  sort ;  but  Mrs.  Dewar,  a  large, 
bustling  lady  of  resolute  character  and  little 
tact,  succeeded  during  her  first  week  in  offend- 
ing the  majority  of  the  leading  members  of  the 
congregation. 

Lady  Alicia  frankly  avowed  that  "she  couldn't 

endure   the   woman";     Miss   Esperance   said 

nothing ;  the  Misses  Moffat  were  encouraged  by 

Lady  Alicia's  plain-speaking  to  go  so  far  as  to 

252 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

remark  that  Mrs.  Dewar  was  very  different 
from  "our  late  dear  Mrs.  Gloag,"  while  the  vil- 
lage women  in  confabulation  at  their  respective 
doors  pronounced  the  newcomer  to  be  "  a  leddy- 
buddy,"  which  to  the  initiated  subtly  con- 
veyed their  opinion  that  she  was  not  quite  a 
lady. 

Still,  she  was  eager  to  do  her  duty  in  this 
small,  benighted  backwater,  and  she  " visited" 
with  zeal  and  frequency. 

Her  second  visit  to  Remote  was  paid  at  a  time 
when  Mr.  Wycherly  happened  to  have  gone 
downstairs  to  ask  Miss  Esperance  a  question; 
and  Mrs.  Dewar  was  shown  into  the  parlour 
before  he  could  escape.  And  even  had  such 
flight  been  possible,  Miss  Esperance  held  up  a 
small,  imploring  hand  as  Robina  announced  the 
lady's  name,  which  would  have  kept  Mr. 
Wycherly  at  her  side  to  face  the  wives  of 
twenty  ministers. 

Mrs.  Dewar  was  charmed.  She  had  wanted 
all  along  to  meet  Mr.  Wycherly,  and  she  opened 
the  conversation  at  once  by  shaking  a  large  kid- 
gloved  forefinger  at  him,  remarking  with  pon- 
derous jocosity: 

253 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"I  didn't  see  you  in  the  church  last  Sabbath 
— and  how  was  that?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  glanced  despairingly  at  Miss 
Esperance,  and  she  came  to  the  rescue  by  re- 
marking: "Mr.  Wycherly  is  not  a  member  of 
our  church,  Mrs.  Dewar;  he  is  an  Episcopa- 
lian." 

"Ah,  but  nevertheless,"  Mrs.  Dewar  per- 
sisted, "I  think  be  should  come  and  hear  Mr. 
Dewar  preach  while  he  has  the  opportunity. 
It  isn't  often  at  a  little  place  like  this  you  get  a 
man  from  such  an  important  charge." 

"I  am  sure  Burnhead  is  very  fortunate," 
murmured  the  ever-courteous  Mr.  Wycherly. 

"You  may  well  say  that,"  the  lady  replied, 
highly  satisfied,  "and  I  must  say  that  the  place 
seems  to  me  to  be  in  great  need  of  a  little  moral 
and  intellectual  quickening.  Of  course,  poor 
Mr.  Gloag  has  been  much  handicapped  in  his 
work  by  that  poor  invalid  wife  of  his." 

Miss  Esperance  always  sat  up  very  straight  in 
her  chair,  but  during  Mrs.  Dewar's  speech  her 
little  figure  attained  to  a  positively  awe-inspir- 
ing frigidity  of  displeasure,  and  Mr.  Wycherly 
looked  anxiously  at  their  visitor  as  though  he 
254 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

feared  she  might  be  turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt 
there  and  then. 

"On  the  contrary,"  Miss  Esperance  remarked, 
and  her  very  voice  seemed  to  have  withdrawn 
itself  to  some  inaccessible  altitude,  "by  the 
death  of  his  wife,  dear  Mr.  Gloag  has  been  de- 
prived of  such  a  perfect  helpmeet  as  is  seldom 
given  to  man.  You  must  certainly  have  been 
strangely  misinformed,  Mrs.  Dewar,  to  have 
acquired  such  a  very  mistaken  conception  of 
the  true  circumstances." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Wycherly  felt  almost  sorry 
for  Mrs.  Dewar,  but  although  she  could  not  fail 
to  be  conscious  that  she  had,  in  vulgar  phrase, 
"put  her  foot  in  it,"  she  was  too  thick-skinned 
and  complacent  to  be  crushed. 

"I'm  sure,"  she  said,  making  an  effort  to 
speak  pleasantly,  "I'm  very  glad  to  hear  what 
you  say ;  but  really  there  does  seem  to  be  a  sad 
lack  of  what  my  husband  calls  Spiritual  Free- 
masonry among  the  congregation  here,  and 
naturally  one  judges  more  or  less  of  the  Shep- 
herd by  his  sheep." 

"I  fear,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  "that  it  is 
exceedingly  unsafe  to  do  so  in  the  majority  of 
255 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

cases;  including,  surely,  the  fundamental  Ex- 
ample from  which  your  analogy  is  drawn." 

There  was  a  dreadful  pause.  Poor  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  hot  all  over.  "If  they  are  going 
to  talk  theology,"  he  thought  to  himself  des- 
perately, "I  shall  be  compelled  to  escape  by 
the  window." 

"You  must,  Mrs.  Dewar,"  he  exclaimed 
recklessly,  and  then  coloured  furiously  for  his 
voice  sounded  so  loud,  "you  must  find  it  very 
agreeable  to  pass  a  week  or  two  in  the  country 
at  this  time  of  year." 

"We  always  go  to  the  country  every  year," 
Mrs.  Dewar  rejoined  rather  huffily,  "but  gener- 
ally to  the  sea,  it  is  so  much  better  for  the 
children.  We  came  here  this  year  solely  to 
oblige  Mr.  Gloag,"  and  the  many  bugles  on 
Mrs.  Dewar's  stiff  mantle  chimed  in  concert, 
as  though  in  approbation  of  this  amiability. 

"That  was  very  good  of  you,"  said  Mr. 
Wycherly.  "I  am  sure  he  badly  needed  a  holi- 
day. I  don't  think  he  has  been  out  of  the  vil- 
lage for  more  than  a  night  or  two  for  over  ten 
years." 

"That's  where  he  makes  a  great  mistake. 
256 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

My  husband  always  says  that  a  man  grows 
stagnant  unless  he  gets  frequent  change  of 
scene  and  society.  What  you  tell  me  explains 
much  of  the  spiritual  torpor  we  deplore  in  this 
village." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  would  say  to  me, 
Mrs.  Dewar;  I  should  be  afraid  to  confess  to 
you  how  many  years  it  is  since  I  have  been 
out  of  this  village — a  great  many,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Doubtless  you  are  engaged  in  various  in- 
tellectual pursuits  which  help  to  pass  the  time," 
Mrs.  Dewar  remarked  graciously,  and  she 
smiled  upon  Mr.  Wycherly — all  women  did 
when  they  got  the  chance — and  during  the  rest 
of  her  somewhat  prolonged  visit  she  addressed 
her  remarks  almost  exclusively  to  him:  ignor- 
ing Miss  Esperance,  who  sat  still  and  straight 
in  her  high-backed  chair  with  a  look  of  con- 
siderable amusement  in  her  kind  old  eyes. 

Mr.  Wycherly  accompanied  Mrs.  Dewar  to 
the  gate  and  held  it  open  for  her  to  pass  out. 

"You  must  come  and  see  us  at  the  Manse," 
she  remarked  condescendingly — then  confiden- 
tially: "I  fear  you  must  find  it  sadly  lonely  and 
257 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

uncongenial  living  here  with  only  that  old  lady 
for  company." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  "most 
people  are  only  too  inclined  to  envy  me  the 
great,  the  very  great  privileges  that  I  enjoy." 

And  Mrs.  Dewar  had  to  learn  that  it  was  not 
only  Miss  Esperance  who  could  surround  her- 
self with  an  atmosphere  of  almost  unapproach- 
able aloofness.  She  concluded  her  farewell 
with  some  haste,  and  Mr.  Wycherly  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  house. 

Montagu  met  him  in  the  doorway.  "Who 
was  that  lady,  Guardie?"  he  inquired  eagerly. 
"She  stayed  an  awful  time.  Who  is  she?" 

"God  made  her,  and  therefore  let  her  pass 
for  a  woman,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly  dreamily. 

Montagu  stared  at  him  in  astonishment,  then 
pursued  him  indoors  to  find  out  exactly  what 
he  meant  by  this  cryptic  speech;  but  for  once 
Mr.  Wycherly's  explanations  were  both  elusive 
and  unsatisfactory. 

Next    day    Miss    Esperance    invaded    Mr. 

Wycherly's  room  right  in  the  middle  of  lessons. 

She  held  an  open  note  in  her  hand;   a  note 

written  on  pink  paper,  with  scalloped  edges. 

258 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

"I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  you,"  she  said,  "but 
here  is  an  invitation  from  Miss  Maggie  Moffat, 
asking  us  both  to  take  tea  with  them  on  Friday 
at  five.  May  I  accept  for  you?" 

Mr.  Wycherly,  who  had  risen  at  her  entrance, 
was  standing  behind  his  loaded  desk. 

"Oh,  dear  Miss  Esperance,  pray  don't!"  he 
exclaimed  piteously.  "You  know  I  never  go 
out  anywhere — and  to  a  tea-party — I  shouldn't 
know  how  to  behave.  Pray,  thank  the  Misses 
Moffat  and  say  that  I  never  go  anywhere — it  is 
most  kind  of  them — but ' 

"I'd  go  if  I  were  you,"  Montagu  suggested, 
sprawling  over  his  table  and  sucking  the  handle 
of  his  pen;  "they  have  awfully  good  sorts  of 
cakes,  full  of  squashy  stuff  that  runs  out  over 
your  fingers.  My!  but  it  is  good." 

"If  it  required  anything  to  confirm  me  in  my 
refusal,"  Mr.  Wycherly  said,  smiling  at  Miss 
Esperance,  "such  perilous  cakes  as  those  Mon- 
tagu describes  would  do  it." 

"It  would  please  them  very  much  if  you 
would  go,"  Miss  Esperance  said  persuasively; 
"we  shouldn't  stay  more  than  an  hour." 

Mr.  Wycherly  wrinkled  up  his  forehead  in 
259 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  greatest  perplexity:   "But  I  never  go  any- 
where," he  said  again. 

"And  why  not?"  Miss  Esperance  asked 
boldly.  "If  it  were  almost  anybody  else,  I 
would  not  press  you,  but  they  are  so  sensitive. 
If  you  don't  go  they  will  think  it  is  because 
you  are  proud,  and  don't  think  them  good 
enough." 

"Me!  Proud!"  ejaculated  poor  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly. "But  this  is  dreadful." 

"They  stopped  us  one  day,"  remarked  the 
pen-sucking  Montagu,  "and  asked  if  you  were 
not  very  stand-off,  and  Edmund  said  it  was 
bosh,  and  you  were  nothing  of  the  sort,  and 
that  if  they  just  came  and  played  handy-pandy 
with  you,  they'd  soon  see." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  tapping  the 
letter,  "what  am  I  to  say?" 

"0,  say  Guardie's  much  obliged  and  he'll  be 
very  pleased  to  come,  and  that  we'll  be  very 
pleased  to  come,  too,"  suggested  Montagu,  who 
appreciated  tea  at  the  Misses  Moffat's. 

"I  did  not  ask  you,  Montagu,"  Miss  Esperance 
remarked  with  dignity.    "Well,  dear  friend, 
may  I  say  you  will  go  with  me?" 
260 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  go,  Miss  Esperance?" 
groaned  Mr.  Wycherly. 

"I  don't  wish  you  to  do  anything  intensely 
disagreeable  to  yourself,  but,  if  you  did  go,  it 
would  assuredly  give  great  pleasure  to  them — 
and  to  me " 

"Then  I  will  go,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly;  and  he 
said  it  with  all  the  resolution  of  a  man  deter- 
mined to  do  or  die. 

The  Misses  Moffat  were  greatly  flustered,  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dewar  were  also  to  be  of  the  party, 
and  to  entertain  two  gentlemen  at  once  was 
an  unheard-of  plunge  into  the  wildest  dissipa- 
tion. 

They  paid  innumerable  visits  of  inspection 
to  their  little  dining-room,  where  the  tea-table, 
laid  early  in  the  afternoon,  positively  groaned 
under  its  load  of  dainties.  No  less  than  four 
different  kinds  of  jam  gleamed  jewel-like,  each 
in  a  cut-glass  dish,  at  the  four  corners  of  the 
table:  while  cookies,  soda  scones,  dropped 
scones,  short  bread,  and  the  cream  cakes,  so  ap- 
preciated by  Montagu,  were  piled  up  in  abund- 
ance on  the  various  plates.  In  the  centre  of 
the  table  was  a  large  epergne  arranged  with 
261 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

flowers  by  Miss  Jeanie's  artistic  hands.  These 
preparations  all  completed,  there  yet  remained 
the  arrangement  of  the  guests  at  table. 

"You  see,  me  dear,"  said  Miss  Maggie, 
anxiously,  "we  must  ask  Mr.  Dewar  to  take 
the  foot  of  the  table  because  he's  the  minister, 
and  will  ask  the  blessing.  But  the  question  is, 
where'll  we  put  Mr.  Wycherly?  Because,  you 
see,  whoever  sits  by  Mr.  Wycherly  will  get  a 
gentleman  on  either  side,  which  doesn't  seem 
quite  fair  somehow.  If  we  put  him  on  my  right 
hand  and  give  him  Mrs.  Dewar  for  a  partner, 
then  she'll  be  seated  next  her  husband,  and 
that  doesn't  seem  quite  correct;  and  yet,  if  we 
put  Miss  Esperance  Bethune  there,  that's  not 
right,  either,  and  her  seeing  him  every  day." 

"Don't  you  think,"  Miss  Jeanie  suggested, 
"that  he'd  better  sit  on  your  right  hand  and 
Mrs.  Dewar  on  your  left,  with  Miss  Bethune 
between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dewar,  and  I'll  separate 
the  gentlemen?" 

"We  mustn't  think  of  ourselves  on  occasions 
like  these,"  Miss  Maggie  said,  with  just  a  tinge 
of  reproof  in  her  voice;  "it's  not  a  matter  to 
be  settled  hastily." 

262 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

"Well,  there's  not  many  ways  we  can  sit 
unless  you  give  up  having  Mr.  Dewar  at  the 
bottom  of  the  table,"  Miss  Jeanie  responded 
sharply. 

"That,"  Miss  Maggie  replied  solemnly,  "is  a 
necessity — because  of  the  blessing." 

So,  after  all,  Miss  Jeanie  had  it  her  way. 

Mr.  Wycherly  had  assuredly  never  been  at  a 
similar  tea-party. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  meal  his  polite 
commonplaces  to  Miss  Maggie  were  drowned  by 
the  minister's  voice,  as  with  uplifted  hand  he 
asked  a  lengthy  blessing.  Mr.  Wycherly  was 
rather  startled,  but  he  bent  his  head  decorously, 
and  when  it  was  over  continued  his  sentence 
where  he  had  broken  off. 

Mrs.  Dewar  was  so  odiously  patronising  to 
the  Misses  Moffat  that  Mr.  Wycherly  uncon- 
sciously ranged  himself  on  their  side,  devoting 
himself  to  the  entertainment  of  Miss  Maggie, 
so  that  she  became  hopelessly  flustered  and 
forgot  to  ask  Mrs.  Dewar  if  she  would  take 
some  more  tea — an  omission  pointed  out  by 
the  neglected  lady  with  some  asperity. 

Mr.  Wycherly  filled  the  soul  of  Miss  Jeanie 
263 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

with  rapture  by  telling  her  how  Montagu  and 
Edmund  were  consumed  with  envy  because  they 
were  not  invited.  When  tea  was  over  and  they 
repaired  to  the  front  parlour  he  looked  anxiously 
at  Miss  Esperance.  Surely  the  stipulated  hour 
must  be  up.  The  Misses  Moffat  were  quite  en- 
durable: kind  and  simple  and  almost  pathetic 
in  their  tremulous  eagerness  to  please.  But 
Mrs.  Dewar  was  getting  on  his  nerves,  and  she 
insisted  on  addressing  her  conversation  to  him 
as  though  she  were  on  much  more  familiar 
terms  with  him  than  the  rest  of  the  party,  a 
dreadful  supposition  not  to  be  borne  for  an 
instant. 

" Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Maggie,  beaming  upon 
her  guests,  "the  gentlemen  would  like  a  game 
of  draughts." 

Mr.  Wycherly's  heart  went  down  into  his 
boots.  Some  years  ago  he  would  truthfully 
have  said  he  didn't  play  draughts;  since  then, 
however,  Mr.  Gloag  had  taught  him  that  he,  hi 
his  turn,  might  teach  the  little  boys;  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  scrupulously  accurate  in  all  his 
statements. 

Miss  Esperance  came  to  the  rescue.  "I 
264 


Mr.  Wycherly  Goes  Into  Society 

fear,"  said  she,  "that  we  must  be  going.  We 
promised  the  children  that  we  would  be  home 
by  about  six." 

Miss  Esperance  never  made  any  plan  that 
she  did  not  intend  to  carry  out,  and  five  minutes 
later  she  and  Mr.  Wycherly  were  on  their  way 
home.  The  little  boys  were  waiting  for  them 
at  the  gate  and  volunteered  to  take  Mr. 
Wycherly  for  a  walk. 

Miss  Esperance  stood  looking  after  them  and 
her  eyes  were  fond  and  proud.  Old  Elsa  came 
out  to  ask  her  mistress  something  about  the 
supper  and  joined  her  at  the  gate,  and  she,  too, 
looked  after  the  trio  marching  down  the  road, 
Mr.  Wycherly,  as  usual,  in  the  middle,  with  a 
small  boy  hanging  on  to  either  hand. 

"He's  awfu'  kind  to  they  bairns,"  said  Elsa. 
' '  They've  wauken'd  him  up  extraordinar' .  He's 
no' the  same  gentleman  he  was  afore  they  came." 

"He  is  exactly  the  same,  Elsa,"  Miss  Esper- 
ance said  gently.  "Circumstances  have  changed, 
and  God  in  His  great  mercy  has  seen  fit  to  call 
out  the  many  beautiful  qualities  with  which  He 
has  endowed  His  servant.  But  Mr.  Wycherly 
is  not  changed." 

265 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Elsa's  face  softened,  as  it  always  did  when 
she  looked  at  her  mistress. 

"I'm  thinkin',  mem,"  she  said,  "that  though 
the  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  do  much,  He  made  you 
His  instrument." 

Gradually  by  slow  degrees,  but  daily  more 
and  more,  was  Mr.  Wycherly  shaken  out  of  his 
groove.  It  was  he  who  took  the  little  boys 
twice  a  week  to  be  drilled  at  Pier's  Hill;  when 
Mr.  Gloag  came  back,  he  even  went  occasionally 
to  the  Manse  to  play  chess  with  him  because 
Miss  Esperance  declared  the  minister  to  be  so 
lonely.  And,  more  wonderful  still,  that  winter 
he  made  two  or  three  journeys  to  Shrewsbury 
to  confer  with  Mr.  Woodhouse  and  see  after  his 
affairs  in  person,  leaving  Montagu  in  charge  of 
Miss  Esperance  and  the  household. 


266 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MONTAGU  AND  HIS  AUNT 

In  a  space  of  shining  and  fragrant  clarity  you  have  a  vision 
of  marble  columns  and  stately  cities,  of  men  august  in  single- 
heartedness  and  strength,  and  women  comely  and  simple  and 
superb  as  goddesses;  and  with  a  music  of  leaves  and  winds 
and  waters,  of  plunging  ships  and  clanging  armours,  of  girls 
at  song  and  kindly  gods  discoursing,  the  sunny-eyed  heroic 
age  is  revealed  in  all  its  nobleness,  in  all  its  majesty,  its  can- 
dour, and  its  charm. 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

IT  happened  that  Elsa  died  quite  suddenly 
while  Mr.  Wycherly  was  away  upon  one  of 
these  journeys,  and  Miss  Esperance  would  not 
let  him  be  told,  lest  he  should — as  he  most  as- 
suredly would — hasten  home  to  her  assistance. 
It  was  a  very  cold  spring,  and  Miss  Esperance 
drove  into  Edinburgh  to  make  arrangements 
for  Elsa's  funeral,  in  pouring  rain  and  in  the 
teeth  of  a  cutting  east  wind.    She  caught  a  bad 
cold,  but  being  naturally  very  upset  at  the 
time  and  having  a  great  deal  to  see  to,  she 
took   but  little  care  of  herself,  and  was  laid 
267 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

aside  with  a  sharp  attack  of  bronchitis  before 
Robina  had  realised  that  there  was  anything 
the  matter. 

Robina,  with  the  best  intentions  in  life,  was 
no  nurse.  She  worried  Miss  Esperance,  and 
yet  that  decided  little  lady  would  have  no 
stranger  in  the  house.  So  it  ended  in  Montagu 
— who  was  then  nearly  twelve  years  old — doing 
everything  for  her,  deftly,  quietly,  and  with  the 
gentle  skill  so  often  developed  by  dreamy 
people  when  they  are  roused  to  action. 

During  his  aunt's  illness  the  little  boy  slept 
in  a  large  cupboard  off  her  bedroom;  and  that 
he  might  the  better  be  able  to  attend  to  her 
wants  through  the  night,  and  yet  not  entirely 
lose  his  sleep  (as  he  did  during  the  first  night  he 
was  on  duty),  he  tied  one  end  of  a  long  string 
round  his  big  toe  and  the  other  round  his  pa- 
tient's wrist,  and  if  Miss  Esperance  wanted  the 
fire  made  up,  or  fresh  poultices,  or  the  " jelly 
drink"  she  was  too  weak  to  reach  for  herself, 
she  would  give  the  string  a  gentle  pull,  and 
Montagu,  who  was  a  light  sleeper,  was  by  her 
side  in  a  moment,  quick  to  hear  her  faintest 
whisper. 

268 


Montagu  and  His  Aunt 

During  that  time  Montagu  learned  to  know 
his  aunt  as  he  never  could  have  done  under  any 
other  circumstances.  As  her  breathing  grew 
easier,  and  her  wonderful  constitution — result 
of  a  life  temperate  and  self-denying  in  all  things 
• — reasserted  itself,  they  would  have  long  and 
intimate  talks,  and  the  little  boy  learned  a 
great  deal  about  "the  family"  of  which  Miss 
Esperance  was  very  proud.  It  had  been  settled 
that  at  Mr.  Wycherly's  death  Montagu  was  to 
take  his  name.  "He  has  no  son,  my  dear,  and 
he  has  done  so  much  for  us  that  we  could  not 
refuse  him  this ;  but  I  would  have  you  remember 
always  that  you  are  a  Bethune.  There  have 
been  some  bad  men  among  them  and  many 
good — but  bad  and  good  alike,  they  have  all 
been  Scottish  gentlemen.  You  will  be  educated 
in  England,  Montagu,  you  will  go  to  the  English 
church,  and  you  will  learn  English  ways — good 
and  pleasant  ways  they  are  which  go  to  the 
making  of  such  men  as  our  dear  friend — so 
wise  and  kind  and  unselfish.  But  never  forget 
that  you  yourself  are  a  Bethune,  for  it  is  a  proud 
name  to  bear." 

And  then  the  dear  old  lady  would  show  him 
269 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  family's  coat-of-arms  in  a  little,  fat,  square 
calf-bound  "  Scots  Compendium  of  Rudiments 
of  Honour.  Containing  the  succession  of  Scots 
Kings  from  Fergus,  who  founded  the  Monarchy. 
ALSO  the  Nobility  of  Scotland  Present  and 
Extinct — The  Fifth  edition  improved  and 
brought  down  to  the  year  1752." 

From  this  work  Montagu  would  read  aloud 
to  his  aunt  almost  as  often  as  from  the  Bible 
itself,  and  would  shudder  as  he  read  how  one 
Archibald  Bethune  was  "famish'd  at  Falkland 
in  the  year  1592  so  that  he  nearly  dy'd,"  but 
escaping  to  France  "did  afterward  marry  one 
Esperance  de  Lanois,  daughter  of  a  Marshal  of 
France — "  "and  since  then,"  Miss  Esperance 
would  interrupt  eagerly,  "there  was  never  an- 
other Esperance  Bethune  till  I  was  born." 

"I  think  she  must  have  been  like  you,"  Mon- 
tagu said,  "kind  to  him  because  he  was  so  thin 
from  being  famish'd." 

Miss  Esperance  laughed  softly.  "She  was  a 
girl  of  sixteen,  my  dear,  when  he  married  her." 

"I'd  rather  marry  you  than  any  girl  of  six- 
teen that  I've  ever  seen,"  Montagu  said  stoutly. 
"You're  much  prettier  than  any  of  them— 
270 


Montagu  and  His  Aunt 

except  perhaps  Margaret,"  he  added,  for  he  was 
very  faithful  in  his  enthusiasms. 

Indeed,  there  were  many  who  would  have 
agreed  with  him,  if  they  could  have  seen  Miss 
Esperance  at  that  moment,  sitting  up  in  bed 
propped  up  with  pillows,  with  a  pink  bed  jacket, 
not  half  such  a  dainty  colour  as  her  flushed 
cheeks,  and  the  adorable  white  " mutch"  fram- 
ing the  shimmering  silver  of  her  hair. 

And  here  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  is  just 
possible  that  Miss  Esperance  knew  perfectly 
well  what  a  pretty  old  lady  she  was ;  for  all  the 
other  old  ladies  of  her  time  wore  "  fronts" — 
dreadful,  aggressive,  black,  brown  or  yellow 
fronts — whether  they  had  any  hair  or  not.  To 
wear  one's  own  white  hair  was  unusual  even  to 
boldness;  and  yet,  Miss  Esperance,  most  de- 
corous and  delicately  feminine  of  womankind, 
quietly  ignored  this  unpleasing  fashion,  and  was 
beautiful  even  as  nature  had  intended  her  to  be. 

Many  and  exciting  were  the  Jacobite  stories 
she  told  to  Montagu,  till  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
house  of  Stuart  knew  no  bounds.  He  read 
aloud  gracefully  and  with  understanding,  and 
his  reading  of  the  Bible  was  a  never-failing 
271 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

source  of  delight  to  Miss  Esperance.  She  would 
lie  with  shining  eyes  and  overflowing  heart 
while  the  boy's  voice,  gravely  emphatic  and 
justly  modulated,  proclaimed  to  her  the  divine 
message  to  which  she  had  ever  lent  so  willing 
an  ear.  She  even  grew  accustomed  to  the 
enunciation  of  Montagu's  "  extraordinary 
views";  as,  when  one  day  he  had  read  to  her 
the  story  of  Jael,  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite, 
he  said  dreamily:  "It's  curious,  isn't  it,  how 
disagreeable  nearly  all  the  women  in  the  Bible 
are?" 

"Oh,  Montagu!"  Miss  Esperance  exclaimed 
distressedly.  "Think  of  the  mother  of  our 
Lord,  and  Mary,  and  Martha,  and  Dorcas 

"Well,  aunt,"  he  interrupted,  "you  know  in 
the  Old  Testament  there's  very  few  of  them  at 
all  kind  and  nice.  The  Greek  women  were  far 
better:  look  at  Alcestis,  and  Penelope,  and 
Polyxena!  I  don't  like  those  Hebrew  women 
at  all ;  they  were  so  vindictive  and  dishonour- 
able. Fancy  you  behaving  like  Sara  or  Rachel 
or  Jael! — why  even  Helen  was  far  nicer  than 
most  of  them,  and  she  wasn't  considered  par- 
ticularly good  though  she  was  so  beautiful." 
272 


Montagu  and  His  Aunt 

"Tell  me  about  Alcestis,"  said  Miss  Esperance, 
lying  back  on  her  pillows  and  feeling  unequal 
just  then  to  a  discussion  regarding  the  relative 
merits  of  Hebrew  and  Greek  women. 

"I'll  fetch  you  Mr.  Wycherly's  *  Euripides/" 
Montagu  cried  eagerly,  "and  read  it  to  you  in 
English  as  he  used  to  read  it  to  me.  I  really 
think,  Aunt  Esperance,  if  you'll  only  listen 
carefully  you'll  like  it  almost  as  well  as  the 
Bible!" 

And  Montagu  fled  from  the  room  before  his 
aunt's  horrified  expostulations  reached  him. 

Then  began  a  series  of  readings  from  Eurip- 
ides, followed  by  arguments  between  Miss 
Esperance  and  Montagu  which  would  have 
convulsed  Mr.  Wycherly  had  he  been  there  to 
hear  them. 

Their  extreme  earnestness  bridged  over  the 
gulf  of  years  between  them,  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  Miss  Esperance  took  the  greatest 
delight  in  picking  holes  in  the  characters  of 
some  of  Montagu's  heroes. 

It  was  quite  useless  for  Montagu,  in  imitation 
of  Mr.  Wycherly's  methods,  to  point  out  that 
such  and  such  ideas  were  so  deeply  rooted  in 
273 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  national  character  as  to  be  a  part  of  it. 
Miss  Esperance  would  only  shake  her  pretty 
white  head,  exclaiming:  "Na!  na!  my  dear 
laddie — right  is  right,  and  wrong  wrong,  and 
that  man  Admetus  was  just  no  better  than  a 
coward:  grumbling  at  his  parents,  forsooth, 
because  they  wouldn't  die  in  his  place;  ac- 
cepting his  wife's  sacrifice  and  then  blaming 
those  poor  old  people.  Oh,  I've  no  patience 
with  him,  a  poor-spirited  creature — no  man 
he!" 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  shortcomings  in  the 
character  of  Admetus,  the  most  human  of  the 
Greek  dramatists  certainly  attracted  Miss  Es- 
perance. She  inquired  in  a  detached  and  im- 
personal manner  whether  there  was  not  a 
printed  translation  of  "Ion"  in  the  house,  and 
looked  distinctly  disappointed  when  Montagu 
informed  her  that  there  was  no  such  thing. 
She  had  perforce  to  leave  the  characters  in  no 
matter  what  impasse  whenever  Montagu  stopped 
reading,  as  he  would  occasionally  for  very  mis- 
chief, at  the  most  exciting  place,  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  asked  to  "  go  on  a  little  longer, 
dear  laddie,  I  shall  not  sleep  if  I  don't  know  for 
274 


Montagu  and  His  Aunt 

certain  whether  that  poor  body  Kreusa  knew 
that  fine  young  man  Ion  for  her  son  or  no'." 

But  directly  afterward  her  conscience  smote 
her,  and  she  herself  stopped  Montagu;  fearing 
that,  entertaining  as  these  plays  undoubtedly 
were,  they  were  apt  perhaps  to  distract  her 
mind  from  higher  things;  and  she  bade  him 
take  Euripides  back  to  Mr.  Wycherly's  room, 
and  bring  her  Jeremy  Taylor  instead.  When 
Montagu  would  read  "The  Remedies  Against 
Wandering  Thoughts,"  "The  Remedies  of 
Temptations  Proper  to  Sickness,"  or  "General 
Exercises  Preparatory  to  Death." 


275 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   FOND  ADVENTURE 

But  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back — yett  be  ajee. 

Old  Song. 

MISS  ESPERANCE  was  decidedly  better, 
and  she  had  at  last  allowed  Montagu  to 
tell  Mr.  Wycherly  of  old  Elsa's  sudden  death, 
and  also  of  her  own  illness.  The  letter,  accord- 
ing to  her  instructions,  put  it,  that  she  had  been 
"rather  ailing,"  and  this  guarded  statement 
produced  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Wycherly  an- 
nouncing his  return  next  day. 

Therefore  the  little  household  was  commanded 
to  retire  especially  early,  and  by  half-past  eight 
that  night  every  light  in  Remote,  save  that  of 
the  fires,  was  extinguished;  and  the  whole 
family  were,  as  Robina  would  have  put  it, 
"safely  bedded." 

Miss  Esperance  had  that  evening  insisted  that 
Montagu  should  return  to  the  bedroom  he 
276 


The  Fond  Adventure 

shared  with  Edmund;  declaring  that  she  was 
perfectly  capable  of  getting  anything  that  she 
wanted  for  herself.  No  one  guessed  how  ter- 
ribly Miss  Esperance  missed  old  Elsa's  ministra- 
tions at  every  turn,  for  the  old  woman,  though 
frail  and  incapable  of  any  hard  work  for  some 
time  past,  was  yet  most  jealous  of  all  personal 
service  to  her  mistress,  and  Robina  had  never 
been  permitted  to  do  anything  that  brought  her 
into  direct  contact  with  that  lady. 

Robina,  bustling,  buxom,  industrious,  and 
far  handsomer  at  three  and  twenty  than  she 
had  been  at  seventeen,  had  for  a  long  time  now 
entirely  managed  the  housework ;  but  as  a  per- 
sonal attendant  she  left  much  to  be  desired. 
When  she  brought  her  mistress  a  cup  of  excellent 
beef-tea,  she  invariably  slopped  it  over  into  the 
saucer,  often  on  to  the  tray-cloth.  She  was 
economically  minded,  too,  as  regards  laundry 
work  (most  people  are  when  they  have  to  do 
it  themselves),  and  looked  upon  stains  as  a 
very  minor  matter  in  setting  out  a  tray.  It 
was  Montagu  who  noticed  the  intense  disfavour 
with  which  Miss  Esperance  regarded  such  small 
untidinesses:  how  often  the  nourishing  dishes 
277 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

prepared  by  Robina  with  the  utmost  care  were 
sent  away  untasted  because  they  were  not 
daintily  served;  and  he  took  the  matter  and 
the  trays  into  his  own  hands,  with  the  result 
that  things  were  served  even  as  Elsa  had  served 
them,  and  Miss  Esperance  drank  her  beef-tea 
without  remark. 

Not  that  she  was  unobservant;  she  noted 
everything  that  Montagu  did  for  her;  and  even 
when  she  was  at  her  weakest  and  worst,  she  was 
filled  with  a  tender,  admiring  sort  of  amusement 
at  the  boy's  deft,  dainty  ways  of  waiting  upon 
her — ways  undoubtedly  acquired  during  his 
long  and  close  association  with  Mr.  Wycherly. 

At  first  Robina  exclaimed  in  horror  at  the 
enormous  number  of  tray-cloths  and  dinner 
napkins  discarded  by  Montagu  if  they  had  the 
smallest  spot  or  stain;  but  Montagu  pointed 
out  that  it  was  better  to  have  mountains  of 
washing  than  that  his  aunt  should  be  starved; 
and  the  girl  gave  in  gracefully,  for  she  was  very 
eager  to  fill  Elsa's  place  as  far  as  she  possibly 
could. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  she  thoroughly  en- 
joyed her  new  dignity  and  independence,  and 
278 


The  Fond  Adventure 

she  wrote  to  the  still  faithful  Sandie  that  he 
might,  if  he  was  in  the  mind,  look  in  and  see 
her  one  evening — "the  mistress  had  said  she 
was  perfectly  willing,  though  still  confined  to 
her  bed." 

Sandie  was  now  in  partnership  with  a  butcher 
on  the  other  side  of  Edinburgh,  ten  long  miles 
from  Burnhead,  and  the  bicycle  was  not  within 
everybody's  reach  in  those  days.  Still  he  man- 
aged every  fortnight  or  so  to  get  over  to  see 
Robina,  for  they  were  now  formally  betrothed, 
and  their  engagement  was  smiled  upon  by  the 
authorities. 

Sandie  wanted  to  get  married  at  once,  but 
Robina  had  declared  long  before  Elsa's  death 
that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  leave  Miss 
Esperance,  and  now  she  felt  that  such  a  course 
was  quite  out  of  the  question.  Besides,  she  was 
in  no  hurry  to  get  married.  That  she  could  get 
married,  and  well  married,  whenever  she  liked 
was  a  matter  for  complacent  reflection,  but 
otherwise  she  was  very  contented  with  things 
as  they  were. 

Sandie  was  hardly  so  satisfied.  If  not  exactly 
an  ardent  lover,  he  had  assuredly  proved  him- 
279 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

self  a  very  faithful  one,  and  he  ruled  his  life 
largely  by  the  somewhat  strict  conceptions  of 
Robina. 

Montagu  was  very  tired.  He  had  had  a  hard 
fortnight,  with  many  broken,  anxious  nights. 
The  responsibility  had  lain  heavily  on  his  young, 
slender  shoulders.  He  was  supremely  thank- 
ful that  Mr.  Wycherly  would  be  home  on  the 
morrow.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  once  more  in 
his  big  four-post  bed  instead  of  in  the  somewhat 
cramped  and  stuffy  cupboard  where  he  had 
spent  his  nights  lately.  He  stretched  himself 
luxuriously,  and  turned  and  turned  that  he 
might  find  the  absolutely  comfortable  position 
in  which  to  fall  asleep.  But  somehow  sleep 
would  not  come.  Every  smallest  sound  dis- 
turbed him.  Whenever  a  little  piece  of  cinder 
fell  into  the  grate  from  the  fire  in  his  aunt's  bed- 
room, he  started  up  to  listen,  thinking  she  had 
moved  and  might  want  him.  But  all  was  per- 
fectly quiet. 

Edmund,  who  preserved  his  infantile  capacity 
for  falling  asleep  directly  he  lay  down,  slum- 
bered peacefully  in  the  little  bed  beside  the  big 
280 


The  Fond  Adventure 

one.  Miss  Esperance  slept  the  heavy,  dream- 
less sleep  of  old  age  and  exhaustion.  Mause, 
old  now  and  very  deaf,  slept  soundly  in  her 
kennel  outside  the  little  house,  and  Robina 
already  slept  the  healthy  sleep  of  hard-working 
youth.  Only  the  little  boy  in  the  big  bed  with 
carved  oaken  posts  and  brocade  canopy  lay 
wide-eyed  and  wakeful  with  that  dreadful,  use- 
less wakefulness  that  comes  sometimes  to  the 
overtired.  There  was  no  moon  to  shine  com- 
panionably  through  the  blind,  the  room  was  in 
absolute,  black  darkness,  and  when  Montagu 
had  been  in  bed  about  half  an  hour  it  seemed 
to  him  that  it  must  be  the  middle  of  the  night. 
The  casement  window  was  wide  open,  but  the 
night  was  so  still  that  the  blind  never  stirred. 
Again  and  again  he  sat  up  to  listen  for  some 
sound  from  his  aunt's  room;  it  would  have  been 
a  relief  had  she  wanted  him,  but  there  was  no 
sound  of  any  kind. 

Still  he  could  not  sleep,  and  at  last  his  listen- 
ing was  rewarded,  for  he  heard  a  step  oustide — 
a  stealthy  step  that  paused  hesitating,  then 
crept  fumblingly  forward. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  it  was  a 
281 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

step;  and  Montagu,  convinced  that  it  must  at 
least  be  midnight,  immediately  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  whoever  was  there  could  be 
there  for  no  lawful  purpose. 

If  it  was  a  burglar,  he  must  be  got  away 
without  noise.  That  was  Montagu's  first 
thought.  On  no  account  must  Miss  Esperance 
be  wakened  or  alarmed. 

He  flew  out  of  bed,  and,  squeezing  in  behind 
the  dressing-table,  leant  out  of  the  window. 
Soft,  impenetrable,  wet  darkness  met  him  and 
enveloped  him.  A  fine  rain  was  falling,  and  he 
could  see  nothing,  but  he  distinctly  heard  the 
hesitating  footsteps  turn  and  go  round  the 
house  toward  the  front. 

Softly,  on  naked  feet,  he  made  his  way  to 
Edmund's  side  and  shook  him.  But  Edmund 
was  difficult  to  wake,  for  Montagu  did  not  dare 
to  speak  above  a  whisper,  and  it  was  not  until 
he  had  reiterated  several  times:  " There's  some- 
one creeping  round  the  house ;  it's  a  thief,  prob- 
ably," in  the  eeriest  of  stage  whispers,  that 
Edmund  was  roused. 

When  he  did  grasp  the  situation,  however, 
he  arose  instantly,  exclaiming  in  a  joyful  whis- 
282 


The  Fond  Adventure 

per,  "Come  on,  and  let's  bash  his  head  for  him; 
then  he  can  make  no  noise,  nor  break  in 
neither." 

" That's  all  very  well,"  said  the  more  cautious 
Montagu,  whose  teeth  were  chattering,  partly 
from  cold  and  partly  from  fear  for  his  aunt. 
"  We've  got  to  catch  him  first.  Let's  come  to 
Guardie's  room  and  see  if  we  can  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  fellow  from  the  window.  The  night's 
as  black  as  pitch  though." 

Very  quietly  Montagu  lit  a  candle,  and  the 
two  little  boys  sped  across  the  landing  to  Mr. 
Wycherly's  room. 

"Close  the  door  behind  you  and  that'll  stifle 
his  groans,"  the  valiant  Edmund  whispered  as 
they  reached  their  goal.  "I  just  wish  we  had 
the  villain  here." 

"I  don't,"  Montagu  responded  gloomily,  "he 
might  jump  about  and  make  no  end  of  a  row 
before  we  got  him  under." 

They  had  no  sort  of  doubt  as  to  their  ultimate 
triumph  over  the  nefarious  designs  of  this 
prowling  stranger,  but  they  were,  unfortunately, 
handicapped  by  the  necessity  for  extreme 
quietude. 

283 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"I  expect  it's  the  parlour  he'll  be  wanting  to 
break  into,"  Edmund  suggested.  "All  those 
silver  cups  and  things  on  the  sideboard,  you 
know.  The  basket  with  the  forks  and  spoons  is 
in  aunt's  room.  We  must  take  care  he  doesn't 
go  there.  Don't  let  him  see  a  light!"  and  Ed- 
mund promptly  blew  out  the  candle  that  Mon- 
tagu held. 

Together  they  softly  opened  the  window  and 
leant  out.  Neither  could,  of  course,  see  anything, 
nor  at  the  moment  was  anything  to  be  heard. 

"We'll  wait  a  wee  while,"  Edmund  whis- 
pered. And  wait  they  did  in  breathless  si- 
lence, shoulder  pressed  to  shoulder,  the  only 
sound  the  quick  beating  of  their  hearts. 

Their  patience  was  rewarded.  The  hesitat- 
ing steps  came  slowly  round  to  the  front  of  the 
house  and  paused  under  their  very  window. 
Then  somebody  gave  a  low  whistle. 

Montagu  dragged  Edmund  back  from  the 
window.  "That's  to  summon  his  confederates. 
What'll  we  do?  If  there's  more  than  one, 
they're  sure  to  wake  Aunt  Esperance  and 
frighten  her  dreadfully.  We  must  do  some- 
thing— quick!" 

284 


The  Fond  Adventure 

"Will  I  fling  out  the  poker  on  the  chance  of 
hitting  him?"  inquired  Edmund,  who  had  al- 
ready provided  himself  with  that  weapon. 

"No,  that  won't  do,  for  if  you  don't  hit  him, 
it  would  warn  him  we'd  seen  him " 

"Perhaps  it  would  make  him  run  away." 

"Not  it.  I've  got  it!  Let's  empty  the  ewer 
of  water  over  him  first.  I  think  he's  just  under 
the  window,  and  that's  sure  to  startle  him,  and 
he'll  jump  out.  Then  you  must  say  in  an 
awful  voice,  'Throw  up  your  hands  without  a 
sound  (you  mustn't  say  it  loud,  mind)  or  you're 
a  dead  man.'  And  you'll  light  the  candle  and 
show  me  holding  one  of  the  big  pistols  hang- 
ing at  the  stair-head.  I  brought  one  in  with 
me." 

"I  don't  think  he'd  better  see  you,"  Edmund 
objected;  "he  mightn't  be  a  bit  terrified." 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  keep  the  room  dark, 
then,  and  mebbe  he'll  think  it's  Guardie." 

"Guardie's  voice  isn't  a  bit  awful.  I'll  be  a 
lot  more  frightening  than  him,  I  can  tell  you. 
Have  you  got  that  jug?  Steady,  now;  mind 
you  don't  let  the  ewer  go,  too,  else  we'd  catch 
it  from  Robina.  Listen  a  minute!" 
285 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Again  the  low  whistle  immediately  under 
their  window. 

Very  carefully  they  balanced  the  heavy  bed- 
room jug  on  the  window-sill.  "It  must  go  all 
at  once  in  one  big  splash!"  Montagu  whispered, 
"Now!" 

A  very  big  splash  undoubtedly  followed. 

A  series  of  gasps,  and  the  sound  of  a  voice 
raised  in  lamentation  exclaiming:  "Lord  hae 
mercy!  What  like  a  way's  that  to  greet  a 
body?  An'  it  that  dark  I  couldna'  find  the 
back  door.  Hoo  was  I  tae  ken  ye'd  a'  be  gane 
tae  yer  beds  at  nine  o'clock?  Ye  didna'  use 
to  be  sae  awfu'  airly.  But  I'll  just  tell  you  this, 
Robina  lass,  it's  the  last  time  you'll  catch  me 
trailin'  awa'  over  here  to  speer  after  ye — to  get 
sic  a  like  cauld  welcome,  as  though  it  wasna' 
wet  eneugh  onny  wye.  I'm  din,  I  can  tell  ye." 

Montagu  clutched  Edmund  by  the  arm,  ex- 
claiming in  horrified  tones,  "I  do  believe  it's 
Sandie  Croall."  Then  leaning  as  far  out  of  the 
window  as  he  could,  "Is  it  you,  Sandie?  Be- 
cause, if  so,  we're  most  awfully  sorry;  only 
please  don't  speak  so  loud,  for  Aunt  Esperance 
is  asleep,  and  she's  been  so  ill.  We  thought  you 
286 


The  Fond  Adventure 

must  be  somebody  trying  to  break  in.    What 
made  you  come  in  the  middle  of  the  night?" 

"It's  no'  the  middle  o'  the  night,"  Sandie 
grunted  indignantly,  "the  church  clock  has 
only  just  chappit  nine.  It  happened  I  could 
get  over,  an'  I  thocht  I'd  just  look  in  an'  see 
Robiny — little  thinkin'  I'd  get  sic  a  like  recep- 
tion. I'm  jest  drooket  through  an'  through. 
What  for  did  ye  no'  speer  wha  it  was,  young 
gentleman,  and  no'  go  droonin'  honest  folk?" 

"Would  you  like  to  come  in  and  get  dry?" 
Edmund  suggested  hospitably;  "there's  sure 
to  be  some  fire  in  the  kitchen." 

"No,  thank  ye,"  Sandie  replied,  still  some- 
what huffy,  "I'll  get  awa'  hame  to  my  mither, 
an'  she'll  dry  my  claes  to  me  whiles  I'm  in  my 
bed." 

"Shall  I  tell  Robina  you  called?"  Montagu 
asked  politely. 

Sandie  paused.  "I'm  thinkin',  young  gentle- 
man," he  remarked  severely,  "that  the  less  you 
say  about  to-night's  wark  the  better  it  will  be 
for  you.  If  I  am  content  to  pass  the  matter 
over  with  obleevion,  it's  the  least  you  can  dae  to 
dae  the  same." 

287 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"We're  most  awfully  sorry,"  the  boys  said 
once  more  in  subdued  chorus. 

"Just  gang  awa'  back  tae  yer  beds,"  said 
Sandie,  and  with  these  parting  words  he  felt 
his  way  out  to  the  green  gate,  and  they  heard 
his  footsteps  going  plop-plop  on  the  wet  road 
till  they  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Edmund  sighed.  "It  was  a  pity  we  couldn't 
bash  his  head  or  anything,"  he  murmured  re- 
gretfully. "I  hope  a  real  one'll  come  some  day 
when  Aunt  Esperance  is  well,  and  we  don't 
need  to  be  so  hushified.  Then  we  could  have 
a  jolly  good  mill." 

Rather  dispirited  and  extremely  cold  they 
crept  back  to  bed. 

"I  wonder,"  Montagu  murmured  thought- 
fully, "why  he  didn't  want  Robina  to  know 
he'd  been  here." 

Edmund  gave  a  smothered  laugh.  "My 
word,  but  he  did  catch  his  breath  when  we 
douched  him,  an'  wasn't  he  cross  when  he 
thought  it  was  Robina?  I  wonder  if  she's  ever 
done  it  before?" 


288 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  QUESTION   OF  THEOLOGY 

Nae  shauchlin'  testimony  here — 
We  were  a'  damned,    an'  that  was  clear, 
I  owned,  wi'  gratitude  an'  wonder, 
He  was  a  pleisure  to  sit  under. 

R.  L.  S. 

THE  while  that  Mr.  Wycherly  looked  after 
Montagu's  secular  education,  Miss  Es- 
perance  undertook  the  religious,  and  long, 
weary  Sunday  evenings  did  he  spend  in  wrestling 
with  the  polemics  of  the  "  Shorter  Catechism." 

"Why  shorter?"  he  would  ask  bitterly.  "It's 
as  long  as  ever  it  can  be." 

"There's  a  longer  one  than  that,  my  dear 
son,"  Miss  Esperance  would  answer  cheerfully; 
"but  you  won't  need  to  learn  it  unless  you  be- 
come a  minister." 

"I  shall  never  be  a  minister,"  said  Montagu 
firmly,  one  day  when  he  had  made  four  mis- 
takes in  the  answer  which  defines  "Effectual 
Calling" — an  answer,  by  the  way,  which  he 
289 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

could  have  learned  in  two  minutes  had  he  been 
in  the  slightest  degree  interested.  "I  shall 
never  be  a  minister.  I  shall  be  an  Epicurean 
when  I'm  grown  up.  Mr.  Wycherly  was  tell- 
ing me  about  them  yesterday,  and  I  liked 
them." 

Miss  Esperance  gave  a  positive  gasp  of  dis- 
mayed astonishment.  "Oh,  my  dear!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  hope  that  you  will  always  be 
too  sincere  a  Christian  ever  to  dream  of  being 
anything  else.  I  must  indeed  have  taught  you 
badly  that  any  such  idea  should  be  possible." 

"Oh,  no,  dear  aunt,"  said  Montagu  reassur- 
ingly, rubbing  his  head  against  her  shoulder. 
"It's  not  that  at  all;  but  people  do  sometimes 
change  their  religion,  you  know,  when  they're 
grown  up — like  Calvin  and  Luther  you  told  me 
about — and  you  know  I  really  think  I  like  the 
old  gods  best;  they  were  very  pleasant  on  the 
whole." 

"Montagu,  Montagu,  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  saying!  Those  heathen  gods  that  you 
speak  of  never  existed.  There  were  no  such 
beings." 

"Are  you  sure,  auntie?"  Montagu  asked 
290 


A  Question  of  Theology 

earnestly.  "They  sound  very  real,  quite  as 
real,  and  much  cheerfuller  than — the  Shorter 
Catechism,"  he  Conclude  dlamely,  checked  by 
the  unfeigned  horror  he  saw  in  his  aunt's 
face. 

Miss  Esperance  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
wiped  them,  then  she  put  them  on  again  and 
laid  her  frail  old  hand  over  the  square,  brown 
little  hand  lying  on  her  knee,  saying  gently: 
"Montagu,  dear,  you  are  talking  of  what  you 
do  not  understand.  It  will  in  no  wise  be 
counted  against  you  because  you  do  not  under- 
stand, but  you  must  not  say  such  things; 
really,  my  dear  boy,  you  must  not,  and  it 
grieves  me  the  more  in  that  I  somehow  must 
be  in  fault.  My  teaching  has  in  no  way  been 
blest  if  you  are  so  filled  with  doubts  al- 
ready." 

Poor  Miss  Esperance  looked  terribly  dis- 
tressed, and  the  little  boy  at  her  knee,  who, 
child  as  he  was,  had  realised  her  sweetness  and 
her  truth  every  day  of  the  years  he  had  been 
with  her,  wondered,  with  a  sorrowful  vagueness, 
what  he  could  have  said  to  vex  her  so.  And 
inasmuch  as  he  could  find  no  words  to  express 
291 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

the  thoughts  that  were  in  him  he  flung  his  arms 
round  his  aunt's  neck,  exclaiming:  "I  love  you 
so,  I  won't  be  an  Epicurean  if  you  don't  want 
me  to;  but  you  know,  dear  Auntie,  it  must 
have  been  so  happy  in  those  days — there  were 
never  any  Sabbaths." 

Miss  Esperance  held  him  close  and  prayed 
silently;  she  even  forbore  to  dilate  upon  the 
blessed  privileges  of  that  Sabbath  which,  as  she 
had  just  been  instructing  Montagu,  "is  to  be 
sanctified  by  a  holy  resting  all  that  day,  even 
from  such  worldly  employments  and  recrea- 
tions as  are  lawful  on  other  days ;  and  spending 
the  whole  time  in  the  public  and  private  exer- 
cises of  God's  worship,  except  so  much  as  is  to 
be  taken  up  in  the  works  of  necessity  and 
mercy." 

"Is  dinner  a  necessity  or  a  mercy?"  Montagu 
had  asked  one  day,  he  himself  being  distinctly 
inclined  to  look  upon  it  as  a  mercy,  for  it  fol- 
lowed morning  church,  and  after  the  children 
came,  in  deference  to  a  suggestion  of  Mr. 
Wycherly's,  founded  upon  certain  youthful 
reminiscences  of  his  own,  there  was  always 
dessert  on  Sundays. 

292 


A  Question  of  Theology 

Now  it  happened  that  on  the  Sunday  previous 
to  Montagu's  announcement  of  his  approaching 
conversion  to  Epicureanism,  the  Reverend 
Peter  Gloag  had  given  a  lengthy  and  vigorous 
discourse  on  Eternal  Punishment.  He  was  a 
true  disciple  of  Calvin  in  that  he  believed  that 
the  majority  of  mankind  needed  herding  into 
the  right  path  by  the  sheep-dog  of  sheer  terror 
as  to  what  would  most  certainly  befall  them 
should  they  stray  from  it ;  and  he  succeeded  in 
striking  dire  dismay  to  the  very  soul  of  one 
small  member  of  his  congregation.  The  min- 
ister had  also  touched  upon  predestination  and 
election,  and  Montagu,  who  was  tender-hearted 
and  imaginative,  was  suddenly  panic-stricken 
by  the  idea  that  perhaps  he  and  Edmund,  and 
even  Mr.  Wycherly,  who  never  came  to  church, 
might  be  already  numbered  among  those  whom 
the  Reverend  Peter  Gloag  had  denounced  as 
being  "rejected,  left  to  sin,  to  unbelief,  and  to 
perdition." 

Long  after  he  was  put  to  bed  in  the  big  four- 
post  bed,  while  Edmund  slept  peacefully  in  the 
little  bed  beside  him,  did  Montagu  lie  awake 
wondering  whether  he  would  die  that  night. 
293 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

The  very  prayer  that  he  said  every  evening  at 
his  aunt's  knee  took  on  a  new  and  terrible 
significance : 

If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  take. 

Montagu  repeated  it  over  and  over  again 
with  dry  lips,  while  he  turned  from  side  to  side 
in  a  vain  endeavour  to  get  away  from  the  con- 
stant beating  as  of  a  hammer  upon  an  anvil 
that  sounded  ceaselessly  in  his  ears. 

"If  I  should  die" — the  child  whispered  to 
himself,  then  gradually  he  fell  once  more  into 
thinking  of  his  beloved  Greeks;  they,  too,  if 
they  did  not  actually  fear  death,  met  it  sorrow- 
fully, for  it  meant  leaving  the  bright  light  of 
the  sun,  and  presently  the  reiterated  "If  I 
should  die"  changed  to  the  cry  of  Alcestis, 
"Lay  me  down,  I  have  no  strength  in  my  feet. 
Hades  is  nigh  at  hand,  and  dark  night  steals 
over  mine  eyes."  Then  more  familiar  and  less 
terrible  came  the  thought  of  that  "old  man, 
the  guide  of  the  dead,  who  sitteth  at  the  oar 
and  the  helm" — who  in  Montagu's  mind  was 
inextricably  mixed  up  with  a  saturnine  old 
294 


A  Question  of  Theology 

boatman  he  knew  at  Leith,  till  at  last  he  drifted 
into  the  blessed  haven  of  sleep. 

Next  day  in  the  Horace  lesson  Mr.  Wycherly 
happened  to  mention  that  in  religion  he  was  an 
Epicurean,  whereupon  Montagu,  as  was  his 
wont,  asked  innumerable  questions,  which  his 
tutor  set  himself  to  answer  as  fully  as  possible ; 
dilating,  in  his  pleasantly  detached  and  imper- 
sonal fashion,  on  the  fact  that  Epicureanism 
pure  and  undefiled  did  away  with  the  fear  of 
death  among  its  professors;  and  quoted  the 
philosopher  himself  to  the  effect  that  "When 
we  are,  death  is  not ;  and  when  death  is,  we  are 
not."  How  that  in  his  time  the  great  incubus 
of  human  happiness  was  fear — fear  of  the  gods 
and  fear  of  death — and  that  pleasure  pursued 
with  prudence  and  tempered  by  justice  and 
self-control  was  the  true  end  and  aim  of  all  wise 
men. 

That  what  he  said  could  by  any  remote  pos- 
sibility have  any  personal  application  to  Mon- 
tagu never  occurred  to  him  for  a  moment.  He 
described  the  doctrines  of  Epicurus  with  as 
little  expectation  of  their  affecting  the  boy's 
attitude  toward  life  as  that  the  use  of  the  pro- 
295 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

lative  infinitive  in  his  Latin  prose  should  cause 
him  any  searchings  of  the  heart.  But  he  had 
reckoned  without  the  minister,  for  Montagu, 
fresh  from  the  terrors  of  the  previous  night, 
suddenly  determined  to  adopt  as  his  own  a 
religion  which  seemed  so  singularly  free  from 
any  disquieting  tenets. 

Edmund's  curly  head  was  never  perplexed  or 
troubled  with  vain  imaginings  or  hankerings 
after  the  old  gods;  but  equally  little  did  he 
aspire  to  any  considerable  knowledge  of  the 
Shorter  Catechism.  Lessons  of  any  kind  he 
frankly  detested,  and  as  he  learned  by  heart 
with  difficulty,  he  "went  through,"  in  two 
senses,  an  inordinate  number  of  "  Shorter 
Catechisms"  in  the  cinnamon  paper  bindings, 
such  as  Miss  Esperance  was  wont  to  provide 
for  the  instruction  of  her  grand-nephews. 
Hardly  ever  did  Edmund  get  any  answer  abso- 
lutely without  mistake,  except  the  one  which 
replies  to  the  question,  "What  is  the  misery 
of  that  estate  whereinto  man  fell?"  When  he 
would  respond  in  a  dismal  sort  of  chant,  "All 
mankind  by  their  fall  lost  communion  with 
God,  are  under  His  wrath  and  curse,  and  so 
296 


A  Question  of  Theology 

made  liable  to  all  miseries  in  this  life,  to  death 
itself,  and  to  the  pains  of  Hell  for  ever."  This 
Edmund  would  repeat  with  positive  relish  till 
sensitive  Montagu  shook  in  his  shoes,  and 
wished  harder  than  ever  that  he  had  been  born 
in  an  age  when  there  seemed  fewer  possibilities 
of  wrong-doing,  followed  by  such  appalling 
punishment;  and  youths  and  maidens,  light- 
footed,  crowned  with  garlands,  trooped  gaily 
to  propitiate  their  easy-going  gods  by  means  of 
gifts. 


On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Montagu 
had  announced  his  preference  for  the  doctrines 
of  Epicurus  Miss  Esperance  knocked  at  the 
door  of  Mr.  Wycherly's  study  about  nine  o'clock. 
This  was  a  most  unusual  proceeding  on  her 
part,  for  they  rarely  met  after  supper,  as  Miss 
Esperance  usually  went  to  bed  about  a  quarter 
to  nine. 

When  Mr.  Wycherly  saw  her  standing  on  the 

threshold  he  rose  hastily  and  led  her  in  and  set 

her  in  his  special  chair  by  the  fire,  taking  up  his 

own  position  on  the  hearth-rug.    The  reading 

297 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

lamp  shone  full  on  Miss  Esperance,  but  his 
face  was  in  shadow. 

"Mr.  Wycherly,  I  am  anxious  about  Mon- 
tagu/' Miss  Esperance  began  somewhat  tremu- 
lously. 

"Is  he  ill?"  that  gentleman  interpolated 
hastily.  "He  seemed  quite  well  at  dinner- 
time." 

"Oh,  he's  well  enough  in  health,  I  think,  I 
am  thankful  to  think — but—  '  here  Miss  Es- 
perance paused  as  if  she  found  it  somewhat 
difficult  to  broach  the  subject,  "I  am  not 
equally  confident  as  to  his  spiritual  condition." 

"His  spiritual  condition!"  Mr.  Wycherly  re- 
peated vaguely.  "Montagu's!  He  is  surely  a 
very  young  boy  to  have  attained  to  a — spiritual 
condition?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Miss  Esperance,  de- 
spair in  her  voice,  and  grave  disquietude  writ 
large  upon  her  face.  "That's  just  it.  Would 
you  not  say  that  he  was  far  too  young  to  be 
assailed  by  doubts?  Would  you  not  expect  so 
young  a  child  to  accept  the  teaching  of  our 
religion  without  question  or  rebellion?  And 
yet  Montagu — "  Here  poor  Miss  Esperance 
298 


A  Question  of  Theology 

again  faltered,  then  by  a  mighty  effort  forcing 
herself  to  voice  the  dreadful  thing — "told  me 
to-day,  when  I  was  hearing  him  the  Shorter 
Catechism,  that  he  intended  to  become  an 
Epicurean  when  he  was  grown  up!  What  are 
we  to  do  with  him?" 

It  was  well  for  Mr.  Wycherly  that  his  face  was 
in  shadow,  for  although  his  mouth  remained 
quite  grave,  there  were  little  puckers  round  the 
corners  of  his  eyes,  not  wholly  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  lines  that  time  had  drawn  there.  He 
coughed  slightly,  and  cleared  his  throat.  "Am 
I,  dear  Miss  Esperance,  to  gathenthat  you  think 
I  am  in  some  degree  to  blame  for  Montagu's 
unregenerate  frame  of  mind?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Not  to  blame!"  she  hastily  ejaculated. 
"Not  to  blame!  But  perhaps  he  is  learning 
rather  too  much  about  those  old  days,  those 
unenlightened  heathen  times,  and  evidently 
you  render  it  all  so  entertaining  that  he  gets 
rather  carried  away,  and  is  unable  to  distinguish 
between  what  is  mere  fable  and  what  is  his- 
torical, vital  truth.  He  is  very  little,"  she 
continued  pleadingly.  "Do  you  think  it  is 
quite  wholesome  for  him  to  learn  so  much 
299 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

mythology?  Don't  you  think  it  is  apt  to  un- 
settle him?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  was  silent  for  a  minute.  "Do 
you  know,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "that  with  the 
exception  of  the  little  'gilt-books'  you  had  as 
a  child,  we  haven't  a  single  child's  book  in  the 
house?  Perhaps  I  was  wrong  to  discuss  any 
school  of  philosophy  with  him — but  as  regards 
mythology,  I  have  only  told  Montagu  such 
stories  as  are  in  reality  the  foundation  of  most 
of  the  child-stories  that  have  ever  been  written. 
I  don't  think  they  have  really  hurt  him,  and 
such  knowledge  will  be  of  use  to  him  by  and 
by." 

"But  why  should  he  seem  positively  to  dis- 
like proper  religious  instruction?"  persisted 
Miss  Esperance.  "I  am  sure  that  when  I  was 
a  child  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  do  other  than 
learn  what  was  set  me  with  the  greatest  rever- 
ence. Montagu's  critical  and  rebellious  atti- 
tude was  undreamt  of  in  my  young  days." 

"Montagu  has  a  curiously  analytic  mind," 

said  Mr.  Wycherly  slowly,  "and  a  passionate 

longing    for   pleasantness   and   gaiety.    It    is 

probably  inherited .    You  remember  dear  Archie 

300 


A  Question  of  Theology 

loved  cheerfulness,  and  perhaps  that  poor  young 
mother — a  Cornish  girl,  if  I  remember  rightly — 
perhaps  she,  too,  had  the  Southern  love  of 
colour  and  brightness  in  life.  We  are  old  people 
to  have  to  do  with  children,  Miss  Esperance, 
and  I — perhaps  my  aim  has  been  too  exclu- 
sively to  teach  Montagu  to  love  study  by 
making  the  approach  to  it  as  pleasant  as  pos- 
sible. It  is  a  great  temptation,  for  I  find  him 
so  docile,  so  receptive,  so  eager  to  please.  But 
perhaps  I  have  been  wrong — though  Socrates 
would  bear  me  out.  It  is  pleasant  to  wander 
in  the  Elysian  fields  with  a  young  boy — but  if 
you  think — "  Mr.  Wycherly's  voice  had 
dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  here  he 
paused  altogether.  He  seemed  to  have  been 
talking  to  himself  rather  than  to  Miss  Esperance, 
and  to  be  looking  past  her  into  that  pleasaunce 
of  memory  which  is  the  priceless  heritage  of 
the  old.  Miss  Esperance  did  not  interrupt  him, 
and  presently  he  went  on  again.  "  Perhaps  the 
recollection  of  my  own  mother  that  is  clearest 
to  me  is  that  of  seeing  her  come  dancing  down 
a  garden  path  toward  me.  To  me  now  she 
seems  so  inexpressibly  young,  and  gay,  and 
301 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

gracious;  and  I  have  remembered  her  more 
distinctly  lately,  because  the  other  day  when 
I  was  reading  with  Montagu  that  portion  of 
the  Odyssey  which  describes  Nausicaa  at  play 
among  her  maidens,  he  interrupted  me  to 
exclaim:  'My  mother  was  like  that,  so  beauti- 
ful!' Now  he  has  never  spoken  to  me  of  his 
mother  before.  I  did  not  even  know  that  he 
remembered  her,  and  it  has  made  me  think  of 
how  distinctly  I  remember  my  own.  She  was 
not  five  and  twenty  when  she  died." 

Miss  Esperance  sat  upright  in  Mr.  Wycherly's 
chair,  the  lamplight  falling  full  on  her  troubled 
face.  In  spite  of  her  ready  sympathy,  a  sym- 
pathy so  spontaneous  that  it  seemed  to  give 
itself  at  all  times  independently  of  her  volition, 
she  felt  that  her  dear  old  friend  was  wandering 
from  the  real  question  at  issue.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  point  out  that  Montagu  loved 
beauty.  She  was  perfectly  aware  of  it  herself, 
and  it  was  not  without  an  agreeable  thrill  that 
she  recalled  a  little  scene  enacted  that  very 
evening.  Montagu,  according  to  custom,  had 
been  reading  aloud  to  her  from  one  of  the  very 
"Gilt-Books"  Mr.  Wycherly  had  mentioned, 
302 


A  Question  of  Theology 

when  the  child  came  upon  the  somewhat  gratu- 
itous and  ungrammatical  assertion  with  regard 
to  the  fleeting  character  of  personal  beauty: 
"People's  faces  soon  alter;  when  they  grow  old, 
nobody  looks  handsome." 

Then  Montagu  brought  his  fist  down  on  the 
page  with  a  thump,  declaring  indignantly: 
"That's  nonsense!  You  and  Mr.  Wycherly  are 
both  old — and  you  are  quite  beautiful.  There's 
a  beautiful  oldness  as  well,  don't  you  think  so, 
Aunt  Esperance?" 

The  delicate  colour  that  came  and  went  so 
easily  flushed  her  face  as  Miss  Esperance  met 
the  child's  eager,  admiring  eyes.  "For  none 
more  than  children  are  concerned  for  beauty, 
and,  above  all,  for  beauty  in  the  old."  She  not 
only  thought  so,  but  knew  so;  but  it  was  not 
the  custom  for  women  of  her  stamp  to  acknowl- 
edge that  they  took  any  sort  of  interest  in 
their  personal  appearance,  and  although  she 
was  distinctly  gratified,  she  merely  shook  her 
head,  saying  gravely:  "What  the  writer  would 
point  out,  Montagu,  is  this — that  without 
beauty  of  character  mere  personal  beauty  is  of 
but  small  account." 

303 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

Montagu,  unlike  Miss  Esperance,  who  never 
allowed  her  back  to  "come  in  contact  with 
her  chair,"  lolled  comfortably  in  his,  dis- 
posed to  argue  the  question.  "I  think  it 
matters  very  much  how  people  look,"  he 
said  decidedly.  "I  hope  I  shall  grow  up  to 
look  like  Achilles  in  the  book  Mr.  Wycherly 
gave  me." 

Miss  Esperance  looked  down  at  the  thin, 
little,  brown  boy  beside  her,  remarking  dryly: 
"Well,  at  present,  Montagu,  I  see  small  likeli- 
hood of  any  such  transformation,"  and  re- 
turned to  the  perusal  of  "The  History  of  More 
Children  than  One." 

But  Montagu  had  not  yet  "threshed  the  sub- 
ject out."  In  spite  of  his  aunt's  forefinger  laid 
entreatingly  at  the  line  where  he  had  left  off, 
he  continued  in  the  tone  of  one  who  grants 
something  to  a  vanquished  foe.  "Of  course, 
young  people  look  nicer  in  Greek  clothes — I 
dont  think,  f 'r  instance  (Montagu  was  very  fond 
of  "for  instance,"  a  favourite  phrase  of  Mr. 
Wycherly's),  that  Mr.  Gloag  would  look  nice 
with  only  a  wee  towel." 

Miss  Esperance  chuckled,  and  was  fain  to 
304 


A  Question  of  Theology 

close  the  "History  of  More  Children  than  One" 
for  that  day. 

All  this  time  those  two  dear  old  people  waited 
in  silence — Miss  Esperance  fondly  remember- 
ing Montagu's  unconscious  compliment  of  the 
morning;  Mr.  Wycherly  absorbed  in  his  vision 
of  the  girl  who,  clad  in  a  high-waisted,  skimpy, 
muslin  frock,  with  sandalled,  twinkling  feet, 
came  dancing  down  the  broad  central  path  of  a 
Shropshire  garden  nearly  sixty  years  ago. 

The  sunlight  was  on  the  grass,  the  air  charged 
heavily  with  the  scent  of  the  tall  lilies  on  either 
hand,  and  she  held  out  her  arms  toward  him, 
singing  as  she  came. 

Miss  Esperance  gave  a  faint  little  cough,  and 
Mr.  Wycherly  came  back  to  the  present  with  a 
start,  saying:  " Doubtless  I  have  been  wrong 
in  the  way  I  have  taught  Montagu.  For  the 
future  we  must  have  more  grammar  and  less 
romance.  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  been 
worried.  It  is  my  fault." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Miss  Esperance.    "I  am 

sure  that  all  you  have  done,  all  you  are  doing, 

is  right  and  wise,  but  I — what  am  I  to  do? 

How  can  I  make  him  see  the  beauty  and  price- 

305 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

less  value  of  that  knowledge  without  which  all 
other  knowledge  is  as  dust  and  ashes?" 

Mr.  Wycherly  turned  to  look  at  Miss  Esper- 
ance, and  fresh  as  he  was  from  his  vision  of  a 
woman  in  all  the  radiance  of  her  first  youth  and 
beauty,  he  agreed  with  Montagu  that  there  is 
a  very  beautiful  oldness,  and  that  such  beauty 
is  to  the  understanding  heart  perhaps  most  fair 
of  all. 

She  held  out  her  hands  in  her  eagerness,  and 
leant  forward,  straining  her  eyes  to  read  his 
face  in  the  shadow. 

"You  are  far  more  fit  to  deal  with  such  sub- 
jects than  I,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "but  since 
you  have  done  me  the  honour  to  consult  me— 
if  I  might  venture,  I  would  suggest  that  for  a 
boy  of  Montagu's  temperament  much  dogmatic 
teaching  is  a  mistake.  In  childhood  we  can 
only  realise  the  Infinite  through  the  finite. 
Some  of  us  in  that  respect  never  get  beyond 
childhood;  I,  myself,  somewhat  resemble  Mon- 
tagu, and  therefore  I  think  it  might  be  better 
to  defer  the — er — Shorter  Catechism  until  he 
is  older  and  more  able  to  grapple  with — " 
Mr.  Wycherly  seemed  to  swallow  something  in 
306 


A  Question  of  Theology 

his  throat,  and  the  lines  round  his  eyes  deepened 
' '  its — er — theology . ' ' 

"No,"  said  Miss  Esperance  firmly,  "he  must 
learn  his  catechism  whether  he  understands  it 
or  not." 

"Well,  don't  be  disappointed  if  he  doesn't 
understand  it,  dear  Miss  Esperance.  I  don't, 
but  then  I  never  read  it  until  the  other  day." 

There  was  an  ominous  silence  for  a  minute. 
He  and  Miss  Esperance  had  seldom  before 
touched  upon  any  religious  question.  Now  she 
sighed  and  said  sadly:  "I  thought  perhaps  you 
would  be  able  to  help  me,  but  your  advice  has 
been  that,  having  put  my  hand  to  the  plough, 
I  should  turn  back,  and  that  I  cannot  do.  I 
wish,"  she  continued  timidly,  "that  should  a 
suitable  opportunity  arise,  you  could  see  your 
way  to  speak  to  Montagu.  You  have  such 
great  influence  over  him,  anything  that  you 
say  would  have  so  much  weight.  Don't  you 
think  that  you  could?" 

"I  cannot  promise,"  he  answered  nervously; 

"should  a  suitable  opportunity  arise,  perhaps  I 

might,  but  I  cannot  promise.     I  confess  that  I 

should  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  approach- 

307 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

ing  these  subjects  in  cold  blood,  and  I  question 
very  much  whether  it  would  be  wise  on  my 
part.  I  have  always  and  purposely  avoided 
anything  that  bore  upon  religious  instruction 
in  my  dealings  with  Montagu  because — well, 
you  know,  my  dear  Miss  Esperance,  that  your 
good  minister,  Mr.  Gloag,  considers  me  lament- 
ably latitudinarian  in  these  matters,  my  whole 
training,  my  whole  mental  outlook,  is  so  op- 
posed— "  Again  Mr.  Wycherly  stopped,  help- 
lessly clasping  and  unclasping  his  long,  thin 
hands.  Miss  Esperance  regarded  him  sadly, 
then  sighed,  saying  gently,  "I  can  only  leave 
the  issue  in  wiser  hands  than  ours." 

"And  there,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  reverently, 
"it  will  be  perfectly  safe." 

Miss  Esperance  rose,  and  as  he  opened  the 
door  for  her  he  held  out  his  hand,  saying  hum- 
bly: "You  must  try  not  to  be  angry  with  me: 
it  is  pure  incapacity,  not  wilfulness,  that  renders 
me  so  useless  as  an  adviser." 

Miss  Esperance  took  the  proffered  hand  in 
both  her  own.  "Are  you  sure  that  you  really 
care?"  she  asked  gently. 


308 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN   WHICH   MR.    WYCHERLY   HANGS   UP   HIS 
COLLEGE    ARMS 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seemed  to  be. 

In  Memariam. 

MR.  WYCHERLY,  a  look  of  great  per- 
plexity upon  his  face,  sat  by  the  hearth 
far  into  the  night.  The  lamp  burned  low,  went 
out,  and  he  sat  on  staring  into  the  darkness  till 
the  dawn,  cold  and  gray-mantled,  came  creep- 
ing through  the  unshuttered  windows  to  find 
him  still  seated,  clear-eyed  and  contemplative, 
but  with  the  puzzled  lines  smoothed  out  of  his 
forehead  as  by  a  kind  hand.  Bewilderment 
and  self-reproach  had  given  place  to  memory, 
as  the  years  since  the  children  had  come  passed 
before  him  in  procession. 

There   was   that   strange,    dreadful  journey 
homeward  from  Portsmouth,  the  long  cramped 
hours  of  sitting,  he  and  Miss  Esperance,  each 
309 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

with  a  child  clasped  in  stiff,  unfamiliar  arms: 
those  first  bewildering  days  when  the  children 
made  all  sorts  of  incomprehensible  demands 
upon  his  inexperience.  As  he  sat  alone  in  the 
darkness  Edmund's  indignant  lamentations 
because  he  could  not  "make  a  'abbit"  sounded 
in  his  ears,  and  his  triumphant  outcries  when 
once  the  manufacture  of  the  creature  was 
accomplished. 

The  rabbit  scenes  came  back  to  him,  and  a 
thousand  others — those  pretty  daily  doings 
full  of  quaint  solemnity,  that  parents  take  for 
granted,  but  that  come  with  an  ever-recurring 
shock  of  almost  reverential  pleasure  upon  such 
gentle-hearted  maids  and  bachelors  as  have  to 
do  with  little  children  late  in  life. 

It  had  never  ceased  to  fill  Mr.  Wycherly 
with  amazement  that  baby  Edmund  managed 
to  put  his  spoon  into  his  mouth  and  not  into 
his  eye;  and  he  never  fastened  those  absurd 
little  strap  shoes  that  were  for  ever  coming 
undone,  without  a  slight  trembling  of  the 
hands.  It  seemed  so  wonderful  that  he,  of  all 
people,  should  be  permitted  to  officiate  at  these 
mysteries.  His  memory  was  clamorous  with 
310 


His  College  Arms 

the  children's  endless  demands  for  "stories." 
Picture  after  picture  unrolled  before  him  of 
attentive,  eager-eyed  Montagu,  listening  with 
breathless  interest  to  the  tales  that  are  old  and 
new  as  life  itself;  of  sturdy,  fidgety  Edmund 
with  the  loud  laugh  and  handsome,  fearless 
face.  .  .  .  And  in  all  the  pictures,  the  figure 
of  Miss  Esperance,  bent  now,  but  quick  as  ever 
to  deeds  of  kindness,  moved  like  the  sound  of 
music,  gracious  and  beneficent. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  four, 
and  the  room  was  suddenly  filled  with  the 
clear,  rosy  light  that  proclaims  the  advent  of 
the  day.  Mr.  Wycherly  raised  himself  stiffly 
from  his  chair,  and  crossing  the  room  to  Mon- 
tagu's table,  rearranged  his  already  tidy  pile  of 
books  with  gentle,  tremulous  hands.  As  he 
left  the  room  to  go  to  bed  he  stood  still  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  back  into  it  as  though  to 
fix  its  image  on  his  mind. 

When  Montagu  came  in  to  lessons  that  morn- 
ing his  tutor  was  not  as  usual  seated  at  his 
writing-table,  but  in  the  big  chair  by  the  fire. 
He  was  not  reading,  and  was  so  evidently 
waiting  for  the  little  boy  that  Montagu,  in- 
311 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

stead  of  going  to  his  own  seat  in  the  window, 
went  straight  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  who  stood  him 
between  his  knees,  laid  his  hands  on  the  child's 
shoulders,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  into 
his  face.  Montagu,  although  rather  puzzled  by 
this  unusual  proceeding,  was  always  patient, 
and  waited  in  silence,  holding  the  lapels  of  his 
old  friend's  coat  the  while,  till  he  should  choose 
to  speak. 

At  last  he  said,  "Montagu,  tell  me  exactly 
what  you  meant  when  you  told  Miss  Esperance 
that  you  would  like  to  be  an  Epicurean  when 
you  are  grown  up?" 

It  seemed  a  sudden  reversal  of  the  accepted 
order  of  things  that  Mr.  Wycherly  should  ask 
Montagu  to  explain  anything,  and  as  that 
youth  had  entirely  forgotten  his  enthusiasm  for 
the  doctrines  of  Epicurus  directly  his  own  fear 
of  death  had  evaporated,  he  looked  rather 
foolish  and  mumbled: 

"It  seems  a  comfortable  sort  of  religion." 

"And  do  you  consider  our  religion  uncom- 
fortable?" asked  Mr.  Wycherly,  putting  one 
finger  under  the  little  boy's  chin  and  lifting  the 
downcast  face  to  his. 

312 


His  College  Arms 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  replied  with  great  decision, 
looking  his  teacher  straight  in  the  eyes,  "most 
uncomfortable,  with  so  many  ways  you  can  go 
to  Hell,  and  people  you  like,  too,  and  no  get- 
ting back  when  you're  once  there,  either." 
And  Montagu  grew  quite  red  in  the  face  with 
the  vehemence  of  his  objection  to  these  doctrines. 

My.  Wycherly  withdrew  his  hand  from  under 
Montagu's  chin  and  laid  it  on  one  of  the  little 
brown  hands  holding  his  coat  so  firmly. 

"Why  do  you  bother  your  head  about  it?" 
he  said  gently.  "You  may  take  it  from  me 
that  no  one,  above  all,  no  little  boy  who  tries 
his  best  to  behave  well  and  pleasantly,  ever 
goes  to  Hell — and  as  for  the  others — who 
knows?  you  certainly  don't.  Besides,  do  you 
honestly  think  that  any  wise  person  would 
choose  a  religion  merely  because  it  was  com- 
fortable? There  is  very  little  use  in  any  re- 
ligion that  does  not  at  times  make  us  most 
uncomfortable,  and  spur  us  every  day  to  try 
to  do  better.  Dear  me,  Montagu!  when  I  was 
your  age  I  believed  what  I  was  told,  and  never 
troubled  my  head  ebout  such  things.  I  learned 
my  catechism  without  a  murmur." 
313 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

"The  Shorter  Catechism?"  Montagu  inter- 
rupted. 

"No,  not  that  one,  but  it's  very  much 
the  same  thing,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly  menda- 
ciously. 

"Well,  /  believe  what  I'm  told,"  said  Mon- 
tagu somewhat  aggrieved  by  this  unsympa- 
thetic attitude  on  the  part  of  his  old  friend. 
"That's  what  makes  me  so  uncomfortable.  If 
I  didn't  believe  it,  sir,  it  wouldn't  matter." 

"I  assure  you,  Montagu,  if  you  ask  Miss 
Esperance,  or  Mr.  Gloag,  himself — he  is  a  most 
sensible  man  on  the  whole — they  will  both  tell 
you  that  it  is  absurd  for  you  to  worry  yourself 
about  Hell.  You  don't  know  anything  about 
your  own  religion  yet,  far  less  that  of  the  Epi- 
cureans. But  now  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me 
very  attentively  for  I  have  something  serious 
to  say  to  you.  You  may  take  absolutely  on 
trust,  either  upon  this  or  upon  any  other  sub- 
ject, anything  that  Miss  Esperance  may  tell  you. 
She  is  a  far  safer  guide  than  I,  or  Mr.  Gloag,  or 
indeed  any  one  that  you  know.  And  above  all, 
I  beg  you  to  try  even  harder  with  whatever 
lessons  she  may  set  you,  than  you  do  with 
314 


His  College  Arms 

mine.  You  must  try  to  please  her,  to  make  her 
happy.  ..." 

Mr.  Wycherly  paused  and  cleared  his  throat, 
the  earnest,  puzzled  face  looking  up  into  his 
grew  suddenly  dim,  and  the  little  boy  felt  his 
tutor's  hand  tighten  on  his  own,  as  he  asked 
suddenly,  "  Montagu,  have  you  ever  seen  any- 
body drunk?" 

"Yes,  lots  of  times:  they  look  horrid,  and 
walk  crookedly  and  have  hoarse  voices,  the 
people  on  the  road  to  Leith  are  often  drunk." 

"There  was  once  a  man,  Montagu,  who  got 
into  the  habit  of  drinking  more  than  was  good 
for  him.  How  and  why  he  got  into  that  habit 
does  not  matter,  it  was  at  all  events  no  excuse. 

"He  grew  worse  and  worse — I  don't  think 
he  ever  looked  quite  like  the  people  you  men- 
tion, but  I  don't  know.  His  brain  was  going, 
his  friends  were  ashamed  of  him,  there  seemed 
no  place  for  him  in  this  world,  and  how  should 
he  dare  face  the  next?  He  was  not  altogether  a 
stupid  man,  he  knew  many  things,  and  best  of 
all  that  the  weakness  he  encouraged  was  a  fatal 
weakness,  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  strength 
of  mind  or  body  to  pull  himself  together  till  an 
315 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

angel  from  heaven  took  him  into  her  house  and 
helped  him,  and  protected  him  against  himself 
— till  he  was  cured.  It  was  not  done  quickly, 
and  God,  who  gave  her  her  great  heart,  alone 
knows  what  she  had  to  bear  in  the  doing  of  it." 

Mr.  Wycherly  paused,  he  felt  Montagu's 
body  tremble  between  his  knees,  but  the  child 
did  not  speak,  and  the  broken  voice  went  on, 
"The  angel  was  your  aunt,  Montagu,  and  I, 
I  was  the  man.  And  the  last  time  I  was  drunk, 
your  father,  not  much  older  than  you  are  now, 
brought  me  home." 

The  clock  ticked  loudly,  and  a  thrush  was 
singing  on  the  alder  tree  outside.  There  was 
no  other  sound  in  the  room  till  Montagu, 
moved  to  a  sudden  passion  of  tears,  flung  him- 
self forward  into  his  old  friend's  arms,  clasping 
him  round  the  neck  and  exclaiming  between 
his  sobs,  "What  does  it  matter?  Why  did  you 
tell  me?  I  didn't  think  I  could  love  you  any 
more,  but  I  do,  I  do,  I  do!" 


"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Wycherly,  some  five 
minutes  later,  wiping  Montagu's  tear-stained 
316 


His  College  Arms 

face  with  a  large,  clean  handkerchief,  "we  had 
better  begin  work,  and  you  may  write  out  the 
rules  concerning  the  sequence  of  the  tenses, 
that  you  learned  yesterday." 

As  Montagu  settled  himself  at  the  stout, 
stumpy  table,  the  sun  shone  in  on  him  with 
a  radiance  that  made  him  blink.  And  Mr. 
Wycherly  looked  round  the  room  with  the 
relieved  expression  of  one  who,  expecting 
everything  to  be  changed,  found  it  still  blessedly 
the  same. 

He  had  played  his  great  stake  and  won :  and 
never  was  winner  more  happily  relieved. 
When  Montagu  finished  his  morning's  lessons 
and  went  downstairs  and  Mr.  Wycherly  moved 
about  his  room  dusting  his  books  and  rear- 
ranging the  piles  of  papers  on  his  desk,  he 
might  have  been  heard  to  sing  softly  and  with 
subdued  but  joyful  emphasis  certain  stanzas 
that  always  concluded  with  a  rollicking  "fal 
la  la  la  la  la  la." 

Presently  he  went  to  Montagu's  window  and 

looked  out  toward  Arthur's  Seat.    But  he  did 

not  see  it,  for  in  dreams  he  walked  in  his  college 

garden   beside  the   bastioned   city  wall.     "I 

317 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

would  like  to  see  the  chestnuts  in  bloom  once 
more/'  he  said  softly,  "and  the  perfect  grass." 

Montagu  met  his  aunt  on  the  staircase  as  he 
was  going  down  and  she  at  once  noted  that  his 
face  looked  tear-stained  and  his  eyelids  were 
swollen  with  crying.  It  was  so  unheard  of  a 
thing  that  Montagu  should  cry  during  his 
lessons,  whatever  else  he  might  cry  about, 
that  Miss  Esperance  stopped  him  to  ask 
anxiously  what  had  happened.  The  boy 
crimsoned  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "It  was 
about  the  catechism,  Aunt  Esperance,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  am  sorry;  I  won't  be  tiresome  any 
more." 

"Then  he  did  speak  to  you?"  she  exclaimed 
in  surprise. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Montagu  earnestly.  "He 
made  me  very  sorry,"  and  he  fled  past  his  aunt 
down  the  little  crooked  staircase  and  out  into 
the  garden,  for  he  feared  what  she  might  ask 
him  next,  and  like  Elsa,  when  she  discovered 
the  gaps  made  by  the  missing  books  six  years 
ago,  the  boy  felt  that  here  again  was  a  sacrifice 
that  "she  maun  never  ken." 
318 


His  College  Arms 

The  long-stilled  voices  of  habit  and  tradition 
called  loudly  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  and  moving  as 
if  in  a  dream,  he  went  and  opened  a  drawer  in 
his  desk  and  drew  from  it  a  framed  picture  of 
his  college  arms.  The  gules  were  faded  but 
the  seeded  Or  on  the  tudor  roses  caught  the 
sunlight  and  gleamed  gladly,  as  though  it  re- 
joiced to  see  the  brightness  of  the  day  once 
more.  With  trembling  hands  he  took  down 
the  portrait  of  John  Knox  above  the  mantel- 
piece, and  hung  the  arms  of  New  College  in  its 
place. 


In  looking  forward  for  Montagu  Mr.  Wy- 
cherly had  learned  to  look  back,  no  longer 
wholly  in  pain  and  shame,  but  sometimes  in 
liveliest  gratitude  that  there  was  so  much  to 
remember  that  was  lovely  and  of  good  report. 
And  the  more  he  remembered,  the  more  did 
action  of  many  sorts  seem  imperative,  and  in 
the  July,  after  he  had  confessed  himself  to 
Montagu,  he  went  back  to  see  Oxford  once 
more.  Back  to  the  city,  of  perhaps  all  others 
in  the  civilised  world,  to  fill  the  minds  and 
319 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

hearts  of  her  sons  with  an  adoring  passion  of 
tenderness,  of  real  filial  affection.  The  love, 
that  while  it  worships  the  virtues  of  a  mother, 
is  only  strengthened  by  a  perfect  understand- 
ing of  her  weakness,  her  humanity,  her  beauti- 
ful inconsistency. 

The  great  quadrangles  spread  themselves 
empty  and  silent  in  the  sunlight:  the  fields, 
untenanted  of  "young  barbarians  all  at 
play"  stretched  green  and  peaceful  to  the 
river. 

But  the  gray  old  buildings  smiled  their  gra- 
cious welcome  as  of  old,  with  that  wonderful 
mediaeval  friendliness  that  neither  time  nor 
absence  can  change  or  lessen.  And  just  as  a 
mother  who  gets  her  son  home  after  long  ab- 
sence in  a  far  country  will  talk  fondly  of  the 
dear,  by-gone,  boyish  days — remembering  only 
such  things  as  made  her  glad  and  proud — so 
Oxford  whispered  kind,  friendly  things  to  Mr. 
Wycherly,  and  he  was  comforted. 

The  day  after  his  arrival  he  went  to  Matins 
in  Christ  Church  choir,  and  there  seemed  some- 
thing peculiarly  applicable  in  the  psalms  for 
that,  the  twenty-seventh  day.  For  lo!  had  he 

320 


His  College  Arms 

not  returned  to  his  Jerusalem,  well  content  to 
pray  for  her  peace? 

Peace  be  within  thy  walls:    and  plenteousness  within  thy 

palaces. 
For  my  brethren  and  companions'  sakes:    1  will  wish  thee 

prosperity. 
Yea,  because  of  the  house  of  the  Lord  our  God:   I  will  seek 

to  do  thee  good. 


321 


CHAPTER  XXII 

VALE 

Twilight  and  evening  bell 

And  after  that  the  dark! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell — 

When  I  embark. 

LORD  TENNYSON. 

WHEN  Montagu  first  went  to  Winchester 
he  was  something  of  a  puzzle  both  to 
masters  and  boys,  although  his  housemaster, 
an  old  pupil  of  Mr.  Wycherly,  knew  enough  of 
the  boy's  curious  upbringing  to  explain  matters 
somewhat  to  his  colleagues: 

"He  knows  far  more  classics  than  the  average 
sixth-form  boy,  and  practically  nothing  else. 
Of  the  world  he  knows  about  as  much  as  a  child 
of  three,  and  of  games  and  other  boys,  less  than 
any  old  maid  in  the  kingdom — a  most  difficult 
boy  to  place.  It's  a  very  risky  experiment. 

And  Montagu's  housemaster  shook  his  head, 
for  he  felt  worried  about  the  child. 

Contrary  to  every  one's  expectation,  how- 
322 


Vale 

ever,  he  got  on  wonderfully  well  with  his 
school-fellows.  Boys  are  tolerant  enough  of 
"queerness"  if  it  is  unaccompanied  by  surliness 
or  "side."  If  Montagu  was  "green"  he  was 
also  singularly  obliging  and  good-natured. 
A  readiness  to  render  a  good  turn  is  a  passport 
to  favour  all  the  world  over,  and  when  his 
housemaster  declared  Montagu  to  know  less 
of  other  boys  than  any  old  maid  in  the  kingdom 
he  made  a  mistake.  Montagu  had  lived  a  good 
many  years  with  Edmund,  and  healthy  boy- 
hood is  very  much  the  same  all  the  world  over. 

He  was  always  ready  to  give  a  construe  or  a 
copy  of  verses  and  it  never  ceased  to  fill  him 
with  wonder  that  the  boys  in  his  own  form,  so 
much  bigger  and  wiser  and  self-assertive  than 
he,  apparently  found  such  difficulty  in  apply- 
ing rules  he  could  not  remember  to  have  learnt. 

His  accurate  and  old-fashioned  way  of  ex- 
pressing himself  in  ordinary  conversation  was 
looked  upon  by  the  boys  as  an  especially  subtle 
form  of  "rotting"  or  witticism;  and  it  was 
quite  a  long  time  before  Montagu  understood 
how  it  was  that  his  simplest  remarks,  offered  in 
all  good  faith,  were  greeted  with  appreciative 
323 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

grins  by  his  companions,  who  generally  took  it 
that  he  was  parodying  one  of  the  masters. 
Week  by  week  he  committed  fewer  solecisms, 
and  except  that  he  seldom  got  into  trouble  over 
his  work,  which  he  thoroughly  enjoyed,  his 
school  life  was  very  like  that  of  the  rest  and 
entirely  happy. 

The  same  term  that  Montagu  went  to  Win- 
chester Edmund  was  sent  to  a  preparatory 
school,  also  in  England,  and  the  little  house  at 
Burnhead  seemed  very  quiet  and  deserted. 

They  had  all  missed  the  old  servant,  Elsa, 
unspeakably,  at  first:  but  youth  is  quick  to 
accustom  itself  to  new  conditions,  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  was  roused  to  so  many  fresh  inter- 
ests and  activities  that  he  hardly  realised  what 
an  important  piece  of  the  mechanism  of  Remote 
had  stopped  working.  But  Miss  Esperance 
mourned  silently  and  deeply  for  the  faithful 
friend  and  servant  who  had  ministered  to  her 
so  tirelessly,  and,  though  neither  she  nor  Elsa 
knew  it,  ruled  her  so  beneficently  for  fifty  years. 

After  the  departure  of  the  boys,  Miss  Esper- 
ance grew  more  and  more  fragile  till  the  time 
came  when  she  was  fain  to  follow  Elsa,  and 
324 


Vale 

fare  forth  into  the  unknown  with  the  same  dig- 
nified serenity  that  had  characterised  her 
every  act  during  her  long  life  of  upright  dealing 
and  beautiful  self-sacrifice. 

The  end  came  in  the  boys'  second  term  at 
school. 

"I  am  glad  the  boys  have  both  entered  upon 
their  careers,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Wycherly,  in  her 
kind,  weak  voice,  as  he  sat  by  her  bed  the 
night  she  died,  "I  shall  tell  Archie  what  dear, 
good  lads  they  are — and  that  poor  young 
mother  I  never  saw.  I  can  tell  her  how  proud 
she  would  have  been,  how  proud  she  may  be- 
but  perhaps  she  knows,"  and  Miss  Esperance 
gave  a  little  sigh  as  though  she  would  have  liked 
to  be  the  first  to  bear  this  pleasing  intelligence. 
Then  putting  the  thought  from  her  as  savour- 
ing of  selfishness,  she  continued,  "I'm  sure  she 
knows,  but  she'll  be  glad  to  hear  it  again:  just 
as  I  am,  when  people  praise  them  to  me,  who 
know  so  well  how  dear  they  are." 

Mr.  Wycherly  could  not  speak,  but  his  hand 

tightened  on  the  weak  little  hand  he  held. 

"I  would  like  to  have  seen  Montagu  again," 

she  said  wistfully.     "He  is  such  a  kind  boy. 

325 


Miss  Esperance  and  Mr.  Wycherly 

But  it  is  so  far  and  he  has  only  just  gone  back, 
and  my  bonnie  wee  Edmund,  too.  It  is  better 
as  it  is.  I  have  you — and  what  is  far  more 
important,  they  have  you.  ...  I  have  indeed 
been  wonderfully  blest.  I  used  to  look  forward 
with  such  dread  to  a  lonely  death-bed  with  no 
kind  hand  to  hold  mine  at  the  last,  but  the 
Lord  has  been  very  merciful.  His  merciful 
kindness  is  great  toward  us.  ..." 

The  faint,  whispering  voice  died  away  into 
silence.  The  fluttering  in  the  frail  small  hand 
was  stilled.  And  Mr.  Wycherly  was  left  alone, 
for  Miss  Esperance  had  gone  on. 

A  month  later  Mr.  Wycherly  went  back  to 
Oxford.  Miss  Esperance  left  all  she  was  pos- 
sessed of  to  him,  in  trust  for  the  boys,  with  the 
exception  of  a  hundred  pounds  to  Robina;  and 
to  Montagu,  her  lace,  her  jewels — such  humble, 
old-fashioned  trinkets  they  were — and  her  min- 
iatures, "in  memory  of  his  great  kindness  to 
me  when  I  was  ill." 

Mr.  Wycherly  took  a  tall,  old  house  in  Holy- 
well  Street,  close  to  his  college,  and  there  the 
boys  always  came  to  spend  their  holidays. 
326 


Vale 

The  quaint  three,  so  strangely  linked  together 
by  fate  and  affection,  aroused  benevolent 
curiosity  and  interest  in  the  minds  of  friendly 
dons  and  their  families.  In  fact,  the  curious 
household  was  largely  managed  by  outsiders 
when  the  boys  were  at  home.  But  they  loved 
each  other  greatly  and  it  is  that  alone  "  which 
maketh  light  all  that  is  burthensome  and 
equally  bears  all  that  is  unequal.  For  it  carri- 
eth  a  burthen  without  being  burthened  and 
maketh  all  that  which  is  bitter  sweet  and 
savoury." 


327 


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